


Love Is To Be Made

by DoubleNegative



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Background Relationships, Baking, Domestic Bliss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Minor Canon Deviations, Sexual Content, UA: universe alterations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-01
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-28 00:24:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8423557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleNegative/pseuds/DoubleNegative
Summary: “Jack turns in a slow, aimless circle in the middle of his living room. Blank white walls. Bare floor. A sofa, a TV, a coffee table: just the basics, really. Well, no wonder it doesn’t look like home; he can’t blame his apartment’s sudden coldness and its empty echoing spaces solely on the absence of one Eric R. Bittle. It just… doesn’t look like anyone lives here. It doesn’t feel like anyone lives here. He has no idea how to change that.”(Or… Jack comes home from Madison to an apartment that doesn’t smell like cinnamon, and teammates who don’t know what he means he says ‘swawesome. It feels like it should be easier, turning the place he lives into a home and the people he plays hockey with into teammates. But even ‘easy’ things have always felt harder than they should.)Written for the first Check Please! Big Bang, with art by AuntieSuze!





	1. Chapter 1

Jack knew that leaving Bitty behind in Madison would be hard. What he didn’t anticipate was the flip side of that: how strange it would be to start his life in Providence without him. Though Bitty has yet to set foot in his apartment, Jack notices his absence acutely, like a pulled muscle, like a jammed finger. The rooms feel yawning and cavernous with only Jack to occupy them; the silence rings strangely. Jack opens the blinds, then the windows, to let the July sun cast bright patterns across his floor, but even so the air smells stale and curiously blank.

Jack still isn’t sure what he expected from Madison. Prior to this visit, he’d never been to Georgia at all, and although Bitty radiates southern charm like a halo even in the heart of New England, Jack couldn’t quite imagine what the place that had birthed him might be like.

In the end, Bitty’s childhood home seemed exactly right for him: a bright Victorian with transoms above the doors and slightly warped wood floors, faded quilts folded at the ends of the beds and vintage plates hung on the kitchen wall. The same cinnamon-and-citrus scent that seems to follow Bitty everywhere lingered in the air of his parents’ house; daisies and black-eyed susans nodded beside the front walk.

During the day, Bitty baked up a storm while Coach barbecued, and for once in his life, Jack let himself eat as much of everything as he wanted. (“Plenty of protein in a rack of ribs, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty had told him with a wink, sliding the plate in his direction. “Now, what kinda barbecue sauce do you like?”) They spent the evenings swaying in the porch swing, while frogs and cicadas sang loud in the warm, velvet-heavy air. With the porch lights off to keep away mosquitoes and Bitty’s parents already in bed, Jack felt brave enough to drape his arm over Bitty’s shoulders, while Bitty rested his hand on Jack’s knee.

It was so little, in the scheme of things, but it was enough. It was perfect. It was a kick to the teeth, leaving it behind.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

Jack tosses his bag in the general direction of the laundry room to deal with later, then turns in a slow, aimless circle in the middle of his living room. Blank white walls. Bare floor. A sofa, a TV, a coffee table: just the basics, really. Well, no wonder it doesn’t look like home; perhaps he can’t blame his apartment’s coldness and its empty echoing spaces solely on the absence of one Eric Richard Bittle. The apartment just… doesn’t look like anyone lives here. It doesn’t _feel_ like anyone lives here; it might as well be a showroom.

Jack has no idea how to change that.

He briefly tries googling for advice, but either he’s using the wrong search terms or the problem is less complex than he thinks. The advice all boils down to _buy more stuff_. “Add texture and warmth with throw pillows and blankets!” one article advises. “Show off your personality with funky wall colors and upcycled decor!” says another. It inspires Jack to dig his Samwell throw out of a box and drape it over the back of the sofa, but beyond that—he doesn’t actually know what upcycling is, and he’s pretty certain that whatever his personality may be, it won’t be expressed through “funky wall colors.”

In the end, not knowing what else to do, he drives to the Ikea in Stoughton, Massachusetts. He’s never been to an Ikea before, but he knows their reputation, best summarized by the possibly-made-up song Holster always sang when the subject came up: _everyone has a home, but if you don’t have a home, you can buy one there._

It doesn’t occur to him to make a list, and by the time he realizes the error of his ways, he’s already deep into the closet organizers, too overwhelmed to turn back or push forward. He sinks onto a daybed in one of their fake apartments and counts his way through his breathing exercises. In and out, in and out, mindful and slow, until his heart rate evens and the pressure in his chest loosens. Once he feels more in control, he looks at the store map (and honestly, what kind of store requires a _map_?) and tries to strategize. He’s definitely not buying furniture today, so he can skip the rest of the show rooms and take the shortcut straight to the marketplace. He still can’t summon the wherewithal to make a list, but maybe wandering through the home goods will inspire him. Some throw pillows, maybe. Or candles. And he should hang _something_ on his walls, right? He takes a deep breath as his pulse picks up again, and tightens his grip on the shopping cart. What would Bitty buy, if he were here?

With that thought as his focus, he pushes forward, ignoring the desk accessories and lighting and organizational knick-knacks. When he finally reaches the kitchen and dining section, he stops short again. It’s very large. And he should—he should probably let Bitty pick out most of this stuff, shouldn’t he? Not least because Bitty deserves nicer kitchen things that whatever he can buy at Ikea.

Still, Jack can’t very well walk past all these kitchen accessories and not pick up something. Bittle will never let him hear in the end of it. He grabs a fruit bowl first; that’ll be useful. His brain is starting to buzz ominously again, and he suspects his hands would be shaking if he loosened his death grip on the cart long enough to find out.

Working almost at random, he adds a set of wine glasses to his cart, then a citrus reamer and a potato peeler. People keep brushing against him in the narrow aisles between displays, and it’s a struggle not to flinch. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a cake stand, which seems right up Bitty’s alley, and next to it, a three-tiered serving dish. He briefly debates which Bitty might like more before deciding he _can’t_ decide, and adding them both to the cart.

His palms are slippery on the cart handle, and sweat has begun to gather at his temples. He really, really has to get out. Jack power-walks through the rest of the marketplace, ignoring the wall art and rugs and the entire baffling world of “vase fillers.” He pauses for a moment to gather himself before he goes through the warehouse, and ends up adding a small potted succulent to his cart without even really noticing.

With no furniture to pick up, he makes it through the warehouse in good time, but of course it can never be that easy: the checkout lines stretch ten and twelve people deep. He takes a deep breath. The idea of just abandoning his cart and making a break for the parking lot appeals more than he wants to admit.

But he can’t—he can’t just let the anxiety win like that. He botched the trip from the first, he realizes, and set himself up for failure, but he doesn’t want to compound it by returning home empty-handed. No, he’ll see this through, and when Bitty gets to Providence at the end of the month, there will be a cake stand waiting on the counter for whatever he wants to christen the kitchen with.

At least Ikea has self-checkout lanes. That helps. And while Jack waits, he can close his eyes and breathe in the scent of cinnamon from the small food court beside the doors. The cinnamon rolls can’t be as good as Bitty’s—and Jack isn’t going to violate his meal plan for any cinnamon rolls other than Bitty’s—but the smell soothes him anyway. Enough to make it through the line, out of the store, and into his truck.

He sits in the driver’s seat for a long time without even putting the key in the ignition. The built-up afternoon heat wraps around him like a blanket, heavy and comforting. He tips his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. _One breath at a time._

Eventually he feels collected enough to drive, and he turns the radio on and heads for home. The trees and exit signs roll past in a comforting visual rhythm; Leonard Cohen is a low, steady hum in the background. He relaxes by increments.

By the time Jack gets home and carries his purchases upstairs in an awkward armful—because Ikea doesn’t have bags, apparently—he’s feeling detached enough from the whole terrible episode to at least tell Bitty about it later, even if he’s not ready to laugh about it. But Bitty’s still at work; he’ll be at the summer camp for hours yet. In the meantime, Jack puts away his purchases and tries to get on with his day.

The little succulent does look cute on the windowsill, he decides, although he wishes he’d thought to buy it a pot, too. But that will have to be another shopping trip for another day, if not for another month. He puts the cake stand in the center of the kitchen island, then decides it looks ridiculous sitting there empty, and stashes it in a cabinet instead. Then he decides he doesn’t care if it looks ridiculous: it reminds him of Bitty, who will be in this kitchen in just a few weeks. He puts it back on the island. The citrus reamer he tosses in a drawer, unable to remember why he picked it up in the first place. He’s fairly sure he’s never reamed a citrus in his life. Well, Bitty can probably use it for something.

He spends the rest of the day trying not to dwell on his failure that morning, which is almost as difficult as trying to not to frame it as a failure. It’s something he and his therapist have spent a lot of time on. But not enough time, clearly, since Jack _still_ can’t manage to—

He cuts off that train of thought with a growl of frustration and grabs his running shoes from the bedroom. He already went on a run this morning, but another one won’t hurt. Anything to turn his brain off for a little longer.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

Bitty winces in sympathy when they Skype that night. “Oh, honey,” he says. “You went to Ikea without a list? Alone? That’s like going to Everest with nothing but a pair of sneakers and a Clif bar.”

Jack tries not to frown too thunderously. “I know that _now_.”

“Sorry,” Bitty says. “What did you need at Ikea anyway?”

Jack makes a face. “Not really sure. Something to— I’m just not sure how to make the apartment look like somebody actually lives in it, you know? Your parents’ house—I mean, I know you don’t feel comfortable there all the time, but… it looks like a real home.”

Bitty looks thoughtful and a little sad. “I know what you’re saying? But it didn’t get that way overnight. They’ve lived there for almost ten years. That’s a lot of time to make it theirs.” He pauses, twisting his mouth like he’s thinking. “It’s like breaking in a pair of skates. You gotta put some miles on them before they fit like they were made for you.”

Jack nods. He’s right, of course. Still— “I just want it to be nice when you come visit.” He can’t quite look at the camera as he says it. He’s getting better at saying the important things, but it’s hard sometimes: Bitty shines so brightly and makes him feel so _intense_. To look at him directly while he says the hard things, it’s—it’s a lot.

“Oh, honey,” Bitty repeats, softer this time. “Let me put it this way: will you be there when I come visit?”

“…yes?”

“Then it’ll be nice for me,” Bitty says firmly. “Sweetheart. You could have nothing in that apartment but a sleeping bag and a Solo cup, and as long as your fine Canadian ass is there too, I got all I need.”

“What about an oven?” Jack asks, just to chirp him.

“An oven would be nice,” Bitty allows. “So would a bed. But I can improvise.” Even over the Skype connection, Jack can see the heat in his eyes, alongside the fondness. It makes him shiver even as it fills him with wonder.

“Well, I’ve got both of those,” he says. “So I guess we’ll do okay.”

“I really can’t wait,” Bitty replies. “And hey, I can help you decorate and stuff, when I come down.  If you want, I mean—it’s your apartment, I don’t wanna take over.”

It’s too soon—Jack _knows_ it’s too soon—to say what he really wants to say: that it’s not just his apartment, that he’d pictured Bitty there before he’d even signed the lease. That he’d picked it with the two of them in mind. But this isn’t the moment for that.

“I was hoping you would,” he says instead. “I already figured you could help me outfit the kitchen. There’s this kitchen store I saw downtown, called Stock? They carry a lot of local brands, apparently. We could check them out.”

Bitty’s eyes light up. “It’s a date,” he says

They spend a minute just grinning stupidly at each other through the screen, and Jack feels the last dregs of the morning’s anxiety wash away. “Thanks, Bits,” he whispers.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

Inspired by his conversation with Bitty, Jack texts Lardo the next day.

 

 

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Do you still have that green and blue painting from your junior art show?
> 
> And if so, is it for sale?

 

 

 

> **Lardo Duan:**
> 
> Yep still have it
> 
> No it’s not for sale
> 
> But I’ll GIVE it to you

 

 

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> No seriously, I want to pay you. You deserve it.

 

 

 

> **Lardo Duan:**
> 
> Consider it a housewarming gift, bro. I’ll let you buy the next one, k?

 

 

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Deal. My blank white walls thank you.
> 
> And so do I.

 

 

 

> **Lardo Duan:**
> 
> Hey man, I’m the one getting my art in an NHL player’s collection. :D
> 
> Also you should totes get some of your photos printed and framed. you took some good ones.

 

 

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> It wouldn’t be weird to hang up my own stuff?

 

 

 

> **Lardo Duan:**
> 
> like, save the artsy nude selfies for the bedroom probably?
> 
> Otherwise no, def not weird.

 

 

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Thanks. I’ll let you know when I can come visit.

 

 

 

> **Lardo Duan:**
> 
> you better, you loser. I miss your dumb hockey butt.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

His workout that morning goes well, and Jack packs up his sweaty gear in good spirits, eager to go home and flip through some of his photographs and research printing options. He’s not too worried to see George lingering outside the locker room—she often stops by to watch them skate, or to chat afterwards—but when she waves him toward her office, his chest starts to feel tight. She’s smiling, and she looks relaxed, but that doesn’t stop Jack’s mind from racing through the possibilities, each more dire than the last. He sets down his bag and sits in the chair she offers, trying not to look as alarmed as he feels.

“How’ve you been doing, Jack?” George asks, still smiling pleasantly. “Did you have a good holiday?”

“Yeah, it was nice,” Jack says slowly, unsure where the conversation is going, unsure how much he can say about Bitty without revealing everything, however inadvertently. “I went down to Georgia to spend the Fourth with one of my old teammates. Eric Bittle?”

“Yeah, I remember him,” George says. “The one I met last year while we were running, right? Sounds like fun.” Her eyes light up. “And I bet they do a mean cookout down there.”

Jack nods. “I didn’t know there were that many different kinds of potato salad. I tried to stick to my meal plan, but…”

George chuckles. “I’m not your nutritionist, Jack; you don’t need to go to confession. And you’re allowed the occasional holiday cookout. Might not be good for the body, but it’s very good for the soul.”

It sounds like something Bitty would say, probably while he dishes up another slice of peach pie a la mode. Jack smiles at the thought, and immediately worries that he’s giving everything away. No one’s ever accused him of having an expressive face, but he can’t imagine that he can feel _so much_ for Bittle and not show it somehow.

But apparently he’s less obvious than he thinks, or George is less observant. “Anyway,” she says, folding her hands on the desk in front of her. “I just wanted to check in with you and see how everything’s going, make sure you’re settling in all right.”

“Yeah,” Jack says, suddenly worried again now that she’s getting down to the point. “Everyone’s been great. Really welcoming. Um.”

“I know you came into this with an advantage over a lot of rookies,” George continues. “Just because of your age and maturity. Not to mention you’ve already been playing some pretty high-level hockey—while taking classes, no less.”

For once, Jack appreciates that she’s talking around his anxiety, barely alluding to the breakdown that delayed all this by seven years. Jack tries to smile and hates that it’s so hard. “Right,” he says. “Yeah, it was—I’m glad to be here.” _Awkward._ God, could he _be_ any more of a robot?

“Still, I know it’s a big change. Is there anything we should be doing to make the transition easier?”

Jack looks at his hands. _Put a different name on my jersey_ , he thinks. _Make the other players stop staring at me when they think I’m not looking. Teach me how to act like a person._ “I don’t think so.” He swallows. He wants to ask what’s brought this up, whether—how—he’s already managed to disappoint their expectations, but he can’t force the words out.

“Okay,” George says. “As I said, you seem to be settling in just fine, but I try to check in with all my rookies periodically.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “Yeah, right.” Of course that’s what brought this up. Of course that’s why George looks so calm about it, so unruffled. Of course it doesn’t mean he’s in trouble every time she wants to talk to him. The realization doesn’t make him feel better, because honestly, what the hell is wrong with him, that “inevitable terrible failure” is the conclusion he automatically jumps to?

Well. He knows the answer to that question.

“Anyway, I’ll let you go; I’m sure you’re tired.” Jack stands up automatically when George does, heaving his bag onto his shoulder and letting her show him out of the office. “And don’t feel guilty about eating some potato salad now and then, okay?”

“Ha, right,” Jack says, forcing the laugh.

“And really—” she continues, just before she goes back into her office. “I mean it. If there’s anything the club can do for you, let me know, okay? We want you to be successful, but more important, we want you to be happy.”

Jack nods quickly and moves off down the hallway as fast as he can. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to run into anyone else. Not one of the coaches or trainers, not one of the other staff members, and certainly none of his teammates. He’s racing against time: he knows a panic attack is coming; he can feel it on the horizon as surely as a hurricane. He can hold it off for a little longer—long enough to get home, he hopes—but every social interaction he has to force himself through right now is a strain on his resources, is that much less energy he can focus on _not breaking down in public_.

But he makes it to the car without seeing anyone else. He drops his forehead to the steering wheel; in his lap, his hands shake so hard his keys jingle. His breath comes in shallow gasps. He’s suffocating, he can’t possibly get enough air into his lungs, he’s going to die right here in his truck in the parking lot of the Falconers arena before he even plays his first game, and no one—absolutely _no one_ —will be surprised. He’s—

The sound of a car alarm startles him back into awareness. He has to pull himself together. He can’t do this here; that really would have George worried about his ability to perform at the professional level. He takes another shuddering breath and lets it out as slowly as he can. Does it again. Does it again. By the fourth or fifth repetition he no longer feels like his lungs are shrinking, and his hands are steady enough to fit the key into the ignition.

He’s not okay, not by a long shot, but all he has to do is get home right now, and he can do that. He’s pretty sure his therapist spends at least half their sessions reminding him that he doesn’t have to play every game at once: he can, he _should_ , take things one step at a time. One minute at a time, if he has to. So: buckle his seat belt. Start the car. Drive home, bring in his things, make a cup of tea. One step at a time.

Jack makes it home without registering a single moment of the drive. He just hopes he stopped in all the right places. Now that he’s truly alone, the anxiety is ramping up again. He heats a mug of water in the microwave, but his hands shake so badly it takes him three tries to open the packet of tea. In the end, not sure he’ll be able to pick up the mug without spilling it, he gives up, and leaves it in the microwave to go cold. He leans over the counter instead, gripping the edge with white-knuckled hands and fighting back a sudden wave of nausea. He’s hot all over; sweat gathers at his temples.

He sinks to the floor with his back against the kitchen island and pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms up and over his head, tangling his fingers in his hair. He’s on the verge of shattering apart. He can’t hold himself tight enough, can’t take a breath deep enough. He can’t feel the cool tile beneath his feet or the wood of the cabinets at his back. The hum of refrigerator and the purr of the air conditioner disappear beneath the clamor in his head. _I hate myself, I hate myself, I hate myself I hate myselfIhatemyselfihateihate…_

_ _

 

His toes curl and uncurl against the tile. His fists tighten in his hair. He tries to breathe, but it hurts. _Fuck_ , it hurts.

His phone vibrates, loud against the counter top, then chimes with the special tone Bitty set up for his own texts. Jack can’t bear the thought of facing anybody right now, but—

—but it’s Bitty. Even more than he wants to hide everything, to crawl into the smallest space he can find and stay there, he wants to be honest with Bitty. It might be the only thing he can offer, but Bitty deserves it.

The phone chimes again, and Jack reaches up to grab it from the counter without unfolding himself.

 

 

 

> **Eric Bittle:**
> 
> Just got back from the grocery store: creamsicle chess pie is happening!
> 
> How was your morning?
> 
>  

Jack stares at the message for a long time, not sure how much he has the energy to explain. But his hands are shaking marginally less now, and while it might just be the passage of time—no panic attack can last forever, even if they feel eternal— it might be Bitty, too, his voice coming through bright and cheery even in his texts. Jack types, slowly.

 

 

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Bad. Panic attack.

 

The response is instantaneous.

 

 

 

> **Eric Bittle:**
> 
> Do you want to Skype?

 

 

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Yes.

 

He pulls up the app and waits for Bittle to call. It doesn’t take long; Jack suspects he was already heading up to his room when he texted Jack in the first place. Bitty’s face fills his screen, worried and intense, the moment Jack accepts the call.

“Oh, honey,” Bitty says. “Where are you? Are you home?”

Jack nods, and tilts the phone away for a second so Bitty can see he’s in his kitchen. He’s grateful for the video chat. As much as he hates for anyone to see him like this, it’s nice not having to _say_ as much.

“Okay,” Bitty continues, sounding slightly less worried, and God, how Jack hates to be the cause of any worry at all. “Do you have anything to drink? Some herbal tea or water or something?”

Jack shakes his head. “I… couldn’t,” he says, and it comes out as an unsteady whisper.

“Okay,” Bitty repeats. “That’s fine. We can take care of that later. We can just sit for a bit, if you want.”

Jack nods and goes back to focusing on his breathing. Slowly, slowly, the iron band around his chest loosens and the tension in his muscles relaxes. Bitty talks quietly, not expecting any answers, knowing that Jack’s only half-listening. The cadence of his voice is soothing even when Jack’s not sure what he’s talking about—something about jam? And a family feud? Jack lifts his head slowly to look at the screen again, and Bitty pauses in his monologue to give Jack the sweetest smile he’s ever seen.

“Welcome back, darlin’.”

“Hey,” Jack whispers back. He’s exhausted and still residually shaky, but the worst is probably over.

“You think you can get that drink now?” Bitty asks. “Something to sip on will do you good.”

Jack nods and climbs to his feet, wincing at the cramps in his muscles from sitting folded up for so long. He props his phone up and gets a glass of water, sipping it slowly as he leans against the counter and watches Bitty on the screen.

“I was gonna bake something,” Bitty says. “You wanna hang out while I do?”

The thought appeals. Jack likes seeing Bitty in the kitchen, confident and competent, all his movements precise and unhurried. He enjoys the running commentary Bitty keeps up, too, sly asides and rambling tangents mixed in with the baking advice.

“Actually,” Bitty continues, a question edging into his voice. “I’ve got a recipe I wanted to try, and I think you might just have all the ingredients, too. If you wanted to sort of… bake along with me? Only if you feel up to it, obviously.”

Jack considers. He’s tired, and wants nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep, but he knows it’ll only mess up his routine further, and give him even more time in his own head. “Okay, yeah. That… that might be nice. What’s the recipe?”

Bitty grins. “Peanut butter and jelly granola bars.”

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

Their first joint baking effort is a success, and Jack feels more accomplished than is probably warranted when he slides his pan of granola bars into the oven. Bitty was thrilled to learn that Jack even owned a baking pan. (“I bake chicken in it.” “Of course you do,” Bitty said.)

He sets the timer and takes his phone, with Bitty still on Skype, to the living room, where he curls up on the couch with an apple. “That was a good idea,” he says. “Thanks.”

Bitty smiles. “You know I’ve got a weakness for handsome men and baking supplies. Anytime I can combine them, I’m gonna."

“I’m just impressed you managed to chirp me with a recipe. That’s a new level.”

Bitty grins. “ _And_ it’s got protein.” His face moves out of view for a moment as he curls up in a chair with his tablet. “So do you want to talk about earlier, or no?”

Jack shrugs. He still feels sluggish, almost hung over, the way he always does after panic attacks, and he knows that’ll linger for hours. But otherwise the baking did its job. “I don’t know. I felt pretty good this morning, then George wanted to talk to me after my workout. Just checking in, she said, but… I don’t know, I just felt like she was disappointed. Or was about to be.”

“Why would she be disappointed in you?” Bitty asked.

Jack looks at his bitten-down fingernails. “I have a whole list of reasons,” he says finally. “But it’s usually better when I don't dwell on them.”

“Okay,” Bitty says. Jack’s still having trouble making eye contact. “Well, did she say anything specific in the meeting?”

“Not really. She asked how I’m getting along with the other rookies. But… we haven’t really talked much, off the ice? And it’s been years since I was the new guy on the team, and now I feel like I’ve left it too long and—” He’s talking faster and faster, he realizes, the words tumbling out as the nagging worries in the back of his head move to the forefront. He knows he comes across as standoffish to almost everyone he meets, and that’s— well, it’s not great but he can live with seeming that way to reporters or the dentist or his next door neighbor. But these are his _teammates_ now, his coworkers. He needs to be a human for them, and fuck if he has any idea how.

“I gotcha,” Bitty says. “You’re all new and nervous and nobody’s managed to break the ice yet?”

Jack nods. “I’m pretty good at playing on a team but I’m not very good at _being_ on a team, you know?”

“Well, I know that’s not true,” Bitty says. “You were a fantastic captain, Jack.”

Jack makes a face. “Not at first.”

“I mean, there might’ve been a learning curve, sure,” Bitty says, dismissing Jack’s horrible early behavior with a wave of his hand. “But you know you can do it now, ‘cause you’ve done it before.”

Both their oven timers go off, almost perfectly in sync, and Bitty snaps to attention. “Ready to check on your granola bars, Chef Zimmermann?”

Jack smiles in spite himself, and uncurls from the couch. “Absolutely, Chef Bittle.”

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

The granola bars, Jack decides, are really good. Not a substitute for a real PB&J before a game, but satisfying paired with a banana for a post-run snack. He’s munching on another one as he frowns at his phone the next day, staring at the Falconers group chat. Marty added him a couple weeks ago, but Jack hasn’t said more than a few words so far. Bitty had suggested it might be a good place to start Project Team Bonding, but now Jack is staring at the empty text box, unable to think of a single word to say to his teammates, most of whom he still hasn’t met.

He exits the group chat and opens a conversation with Shitty instead.

 

 

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Do you have a minute to call? I need your wisdom.

 

 

 

> **Shitty Knight:**
> 
> Bro I will always have a minute for you. Call away.
> 
> Bare your heart, pour out your woes, etc.

 

“Man, it has been too long since I’ve had your dulcet French-Canadian tones caressing my eardrums,” Shitty says when Jack calls. “What’s up, bro?”

“Um.” Jack frowns, suddenly unsure how to phrase the question. “So, uh, my new teammates. They’re nice, but—I don’t remember how to be the new guy on a team, basically? Like, how did we adjust when we were frogs? I just. It’s a whole new group of guys, and this is…not really my forte. It’s kind of yours, though?”

On the other end of the line, Shitty lets out a long, considering breath. “Oh, shit, man, yeah. I can’t tell if I’m too high for this question or not high enough. Huh.”

“Shitty, it’s eleven AM.”

“That seems irrelevant, bro, but sure,” Shitty says. “I mean, my usual method for getting to know people is just, like…aggressive friendliness, you know?”

“I think when I do that it just comes off as aggressive,” Jack says. “Without the friendliness.”

“Well, yeah, because you dress like a mugger. But I agree, not the right approach for you.”

“Because I’m a fucking robot.”

“Bro,” Shitty says, as sincere as Jack’s ever heard him. “I am genuinely sorry I ever called you that, and I hope you know I never meant it seriously.”

Jack waves his hand, then remembers Shitty can’t see him. “Not a big deal, Shits. Also, shockingly, you were not the first.” Kent Parson was, but as Jack’s perfectly happy to never talk about that part of his life again, he’s not inclined to bring it up. “Anyway, that’s not the point.”

“Just be yourself, man,” Shitty says. “Invite ‘em over to beat you at pool or something. Ask the vets what the best delivery places in the neighborhood are. Catch lunch with people after practice.”

Jack makes a non-committal noise. Bitty had given him almost the exact same advice the day before, so between the two of them, they’re probably right. “I’m overthinking this, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” Shitty says, but there’s no judgment in it. “It’s what you do, bro, I get it. But, like… I’m pretty sure they’re all pissing themselves, too.”

“I think I intimidate them or something,” Jack says. “Because of my dad. I hate that.”

“I know, man, it’s bullshit. We’re all just people, right? But what the fuck can you do about celebrity culture, I guess.”

Unsure of what to sort of reply that calls for, and unwilling to provoke Shitty into a rant about the American obsession with tabloid gossip and Big Names, Jack decides to sidestep the topic. “Bitty thinks I should do an Instagram.”

“Oh, fuck, that’s perfect,” Shitty says. “I mean, trust Bits to turn to social media for the solutions, but yeah. I like it.”

“I don’t know,” Jack says. Bitty’s arguments in Instagram’s favor, presented last night, had been solid: the platform is based around photography, which Jack enjoys and is good at. Several of his teammates are already active users, so it provides a low-pressure way to interact with them and get to know them a little better off the ice. It doesn’t demand the sort of interaction with followers that Twitter does, and the interface is more intuitive for new users. (“Also,” Bitty had added, “the username jlzimmermann is still available.”)

“Lardo’s all over it,” Shitty says. “And Nursey, too, but let’s not pretend that’s a surprise. Hashtag _aesthetic_ ,” he adds, as if that’s supposed to mean something.

“Nobody’s going to be…alerted, or something, if I make an account, right?” Jack says.

“I mean, you’re probably supposed to tell PR or whatever so they can get your account verified, but otherwise, nope.”

“Okay. Okay, I think I can deal with that, probably.”

“Granted,” Shitty adds. “Once people do eventually figure out you’ve got an Instagram they’ll be all over it. But it probably won’t happen overnight. And it’s still better than fucking Twitter.”

“What sort of pictures do I post?”

“Whatever the fuck you want, dude. I mean, probably save the naughty ones for Snapchat, but, like, people post pictures of their lattes and their shoes and shit, so… whatever moves you.”

“Why does everyone assume my phone is full of dick pics?” Jack mutters, and hopes Shitty won’t actually answer.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

Jack waits till he and Bitty Skype that night to set up the Instagram account and post his first picture. It’s not that he needs the help—he does know how to install apps and create accounts on his phone, no matter what Holster thinks—but it’s easier with Bitty for company. It’s also more fun: Bitty still hasn’t realized that Jack exaggerates his confusion about social media—like his confusion about pop music—just to see Bitty’s eyes bug out a little bit when Jack asks how to pronounce “meme” or acts confused about the eggplant emoji. (If Jack’s honest, he also maintains his “terrible at Twitter” facade because it helps him avoid making an account. His bewilderment may be exaggerated, but his dislike for the medium is absolutely genuine.)

He flips idly through his photos while Bitty chats about his campers and makes a grocery list. Jack’s still not sure how he managed to get through his final photography project without realizing that nearly two-thirds of his pictures were of Bitty, let alone without realizing why that might be. Well, at least he’d caught on eventually, even it was a little embarrassing that all his classmates had apparently figured it out first.

So. Obviously that rather telling group of photos is not suitable for Instagram. But some of the others might be. There’s a nice shot of Faber at dawn, and another of Shitty in the reading room, the setting sun casting him into silhouette. A still life of equipment, a shot of their row of empty stalls at the end of the season, an abstracted macro shot of the ice after a game, criss-crossed by grooves and scars.

In the end, though, he can’t resist christening his new account with a picture of one of Bitty’s pies. Shot from above and centered in the frame, it suits Instagram’s square format perfectly. Glossy red cherries peek out between precisely-arranged strips of lattice. It’s a nice photo, but it was a beautiful pie. He captions it “cheat day,” then pastes the link into an email to the Falconer’s PR team. After a moment’s consideration, he texts the link to Bitty, Lardo, and Shitty as well. Within minutes, the photo has gathered a like from each of them.

Satisfied that he’s done right by his social media presence, he closes the app and turns his full attention to Bitty, and the tale of Tent Seven and the Shoe Full of Ketchup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Art for this chapter is by the fantastic AuntieSuze. I hope you love it as much as I do, and be sure to [check out her tumblr](http://auntiesuze.tumblr.com/post/152604780425/art-for-love-is-to-be-made-link-to-be-added?soc_src=mail&soc_trk=ma) for the other versions of this!  
> -The song Holster sings about Ikea is a [a real song by Jonathan Coulton](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUPu_ipbVB0). Mr. DoubleNegative and I sing it every time we go to Ikea, as an anthem.  
> -The [peanut butter & jelly granola bars](http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/recipe/peanut-butter-jelly-granola-bars-recipe-leanne-brown-32807589) that Jack and Bitty bake are also a real thing: tasty, easy and genuinely composed of things Jack might have in his pantry without a special shopping trip.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack spends most of Sunday working himself up to ask the other rookies out to lunch after Monday’s workout, but just as he’s about to open his mouth and suggest they grab sandwiches, Rosey beats him to it.

“So Snowy told me about this place,” he says. “Apparently they make their chips in-house, and fry them in duck fat or some shit? And they’re, like, melt-in-your-mouth good. Who’s in?”

Jack bites back an observation about duck-fat chips and their meal plans, because they are grown men and they can choose their own food and he is not going to make his first off-the-ice-impression one of the teacher’s pet.

(Also, if he’s honest, the duck-fat chips sound incredible.)

Rosey, it turns out, has a bit of Shitty’s gift, in that he’s expansive and extroverted and willing to carry most of the conversational weight while Jack and Poots nod and make interested noises. Jack’s fine with that—appreciates it, even. He is perfectly happy to not be the center of attention once in awhile.

Jack discovers that Rosey lives two blocks down from him, and before he can talk himself out of it, Jack invites him along on his morning runs. Those are one time he appreciates company. Running has always put him a little too far inside his head, and the meditative quality that other people love only gives him more time to brood, with nothing but his pounding feet to distract him. Having another person beside him helps, even if they don’t say a word to each other for five miles.

It’s not a huge step, but it feels like a real accomplishment, and for once, he doesn’t drag himself down for claiming the small victories.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

It helps that Bitty is so sincere and generous in his enthusiasm for Jack’s achievements, large and small alike. Even past therapists, at times, have come across as condescending when they praise him for remembering to use his breathing exercises or sticking to his routine. But Bitty’s never seemed that way. Bitty always seems happy to have him just as he is, to celebrate whatever Jack feels he deserves to celebrate, and a lot that he feels he doesn’t deserve to celebrate.

So when Jack Skypes him that night, he’s able to push aside the flicker of self-loathing that emerges every time he considers “lunch with two new teammates” an accomplishment.

“Oooh, those duck fat chips sound amazing,” Bitty says, when Jack tells him about the restaurant. “What kind of seasoning did they use?”

“Just salt, I think?” Jack says. “And there might have been something red, so…paprika?”

Bitty makes an appreciative noise. “I need to experiment more with frying things,” he says. “Expand my repertoire.”

Jack laughs. “You really don’t. Your baking is tempting enough."

“Frying things is my _heritage_ , Jack,” Bitty says, eyes wide and mock-serious. “You don’t want me to abandon my heritage, do you?”

“Never. But they might have to roll me onto the ice after you visit.”

Bitty grins. “I can be good,” he says, and his eyes sparkle. “But only if I have to.”

“I’ve got a whole binder full of photocopied recipes from the team nutritionist. You can look through that if you need inspiration.”

Bitty rolls his eyes. “Let me guess: ‘Meal one: grilled chicken, steamed spinach, and brown rice. Meal two: steamed chicken, spinach salad, and brown rice. Meal three, sauteed spinach—’”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s the spam sketch but with spinach. I’ll have you know there is also broccoli. Kale, even.”

“Oh, well, if there’s _kale_ ,” Bitty says, and they both laugh. “Seriously, though,” he continues after a moment. “I can work with that. And I can make other things than pie. That binder of photocopies won’t know what hit it.”

Jack shifts a little uneasily. “You know you don’t have to cook for me when you come up, right? We can order in or I can cook or—”

“Jack. Honey. Have you seen your kitchen? I promise it will not be a chore. Anyway, I like feeding people up.”

“I’m really looking forward to it,” Jack admits.

Bitty’s smile is all blue skies and sunshine. “Me too. Fourteen more days, and then we get a whole week together.” His smile widens further, and Jack can’t help but mirror it. “What are we gonna do with all that time?”

“Hm, dunno,” Jack says, and pretends he’s thinking hard. “There’re some cool historic sites in Providence. I figured we could start with the Governor Lippitt House Museum, then maybe Blithewold Mansion… Oh, and the old cemeteries. But we can play it by ear.” It’s only thanks to years of media training that he can maintain his deadpan in the face of Bitty’s astounded expression.

“You know, you had me going for a minute there,” Bitty finally says, shaking his head.

Jack blinks. “What? Lippitt House has one of the best-preserved Victorian interiors in America. Aren’t you interested in Providence’s golden age, Bitty?”

“I mean, who isn’t?” Bitty says. “But that wasn’t exactly the sort of explorin’ I had in mind…” He waggles his eyebrows in an exaggerated leer, and Jack’s facade finally cracks.

“Me neither,” he admits. “I’ve been, um. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. When you visit, I mean.” God, he hates how flustered he still gets talking about this. He might not have the vast experience the rumor mill credits him with, but he’s still a grown man. He should be able to allude to sex with his boyfriend without dissolving into a stammering mess.

On the screen, Bitty bites his lip, and even in the low light of his bedroom, Jack can see that he’s blushing. “Me too,” Bitty whispers. “Lord, it drove me crazy when you came down here and you were so close and I could barely touch you at all. I just—I just want to kiss you _all the time_.”

The low-simmering arousal in Jack’s belly burns brighter. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice comes out hoarse. “I know the feeling.”

Bitty leans back a little, and Jack realizes he’s in bed, propped up by pillows. And he’s wearing a Zimmermann jersey, which really has no right to affect Jack the way it does, and yet—

Bitty raises an eyebrow. “See something you like?”

“I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I really like you in my jersey.”

“Oh yeah? Should I bring it when I visit?”

“Definitely,” Jack says, shifting a little in his desk chair before reaching down to adjust himself, as subtly as he’s able. He’s hard enough that it’s becoming uncomfortable, but he’s not really sure— they haven’t— and he doesn’t want to cross a line, doesn’t want to do something Bitty’s not comfortable with.

But Bitty’s more observant than Jack realized, because he catches the movement. “Me too,” he says, and his meaning is unmistakable.

“Sorry,” Jack says, blushing furiously now.

“Don’t be,” Bitty says. “We can, you know. Do something about it. If you want.” He bites his lip again, shifts on the bed, and suddenly Jack cannot think of anything he wants more.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks, entranced by the way the jersey’s collar has slipped to the side, revealing a sliver of Bitty’s collarbone. He wants to taste it.

“I figure we can just keep talking. And… see where it takes us.”

“Right,” Jack says, and finally gives into temptation, slipping his hand into his sweats. Even that little bit of pressure is a relief, and it’s all he can do not to groan aloud. “So, ah...”

“So if I bring the jersey to Providence...” Bitty says, pushing the laptop a little further away and giving Jack a wider angle. “If I bring it to Providence, what do you want me to do with it?”

Jack’s mind stutters to a halt as a thousand tempting possibilities compete for his attention. Bitty in the jersey cooking breakfast, grinning over his shoulder as he shimmies to the music on his phone— Bitty in the jersey perched on the kitchen counter, thighs spread wide as Jack steps between them and— Bitty in the jersey and nothing else, laid out on Jack’s bed— pressed up against the door and gasping as Jack— kneeling between Jack’s spread knees, looking at up him like—

Jack takes a deep, shaky breath, sure that everything he’s thinking shows on his face, but entirely _un_ sure how—or whether—to express it. His cock _aches_.

Bitty grins, sly and fond. “I see how it is,” he says. “I can work with that.” Jack’s stroking himself in earnest now, and Bitty’s doing the same. Jack’s eyes track hungrily over the flush on Bitty’s cheeks, his quick sharp breaths, the movement of his arm.

“I want to do everything with you,” he says, too far gone for anything except honesty.

The way Bitty’s eyes darken is obvious even over the webcam. “Oh, honey, you have no idea."

“I keep— I keep thinking about those shorts you wore at that one party. The blue and white ones? God, they were—”

Bitty grins. “The ones that made you trip down the steps? I’ve still got ‘em. Been wearing them a lot lately—it’s awful hot out.”

“Your legs in those things should be illegal,” Jack says. There’s sweat gathering at his temples now. He doesn’t think he’ll last much longer. “I just want to— _fuck_. I just want to lick all the way up them.”

“Oh my—” Bitty makes a tiny choked-off sound and his eyes squeeze shut. Bitty’s face as he comes is the most stunning thing Jack’s ever seen, and it only takes a few more quick strokes before he follows Bitty over the edge. They stare at each other through the webcam for a minute, breathing hard and then dissolve into laughter.

“That was— that was a little bit ridiculous,” Bitty says, between giggles. “Not what I expected when I logged on.”

“Was it okay?”

“More than,” Bitty assures him. “I don’t remember the last time I went from zero to sixty that fast. And I’m a twenty-year-old guy, so that’s sayin’ something.”

Jack snorts. Honestly, between the anxiety and the anti-anxiety medication (not to mention the sheer physical exhaustion that dogs his days), he could say the same himself, most of the time.

“You know, I was thinking,” Bitty says, after they’ve cleaned themselves up. “You’ve been talking about how you want to make your apartment feel homier, and how you want to bond more with your teammates. What if you had some of them over, like for your birthday or something, while I’m up there? Maybe Shitty and Lardo, too, since they’re close by?”

Jack’s first, nearly overpowering, instinct is to say no. He doesn’t mind company, but he’s not a natural host, not like Bitty. And that week is his time, his and Bitty’s, and the idea of sharing even a minute of it makes him want to howl.

“I could help you host,” Bitty says. “It wouldn’t—I know we couldn’t be out, but… well, I’d like to meet some of them, and… anyway, you can say no, obviously. It was just a thought.”

“Maybe,” Jack says slowly. It wouldn’t be like a Haus party, he reminds himself. By August he’ll know some of the guys better, so it won’t be like having strangers in his house. And it would be easier, with Bitty beside him. “I—I’ll think about it.”

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

And he does think about it. Jack knows he overthinks things, always has. The ice is the only place he’s able to act on instinct alone, action at the speed of thought, and it’s one thing he loves about being in the rink.

But there’s a security in turning things over in his mind, examining every facet methodically and working through the problems he finds. It sometimes skirts close to what his mother calls “borrowing trouble” and his therapist calls “trying to play the entire season at once,” but it’s not something he’s ever been able to turn off.

So, he thinks about the party. While he runs, while he showers, while he pokes at his stir fry and does the dishes and folds laundry and brushes his teeth. By the time he climbs into bed the next evening, he’s made a pro/con list.

 

 

> **Pro:**
> 
>   * Bitty thinks it’s a good idea
>   * Bitty will have fun planning & cooking & hosting
>   * Socialize with teammates (& partners y/n???)
>   * Finally use the pool table
>   * See Shitty & Lardo
>   * Doesn’t have to be loud/large/involved
>   * Do fun things in the apartment
> 


 

 

> **Con:**
> 
>   * Less time alone with Bitty
>   * More time in closet
>   * Hosting duties/can’t escape to bedroom/center of attention
>   * Alcohol????
>   * Might end up loud/large/involved anyway
> 


 

Bitty shows up twice on his pro list and only once on the con list, and that ends up being the strongest argument in the party’s favor.

“I don’t want to call it a birthday party, though,” he tells Bitty when they talk about it again a few days later. “That just makes it weird.”

“Can I still make you a cake?” Bitty asks.

Jack has to chuckle at the genuine concern in his tone. “Can anything on earth actually stop you from making a cake?”

“Well, I mean. I could make a pie instead. Oh! Or a torte!"

“It’s fine, Bits. You can make whatever you want. You can even put candles on it. I just… I don’t want the whole party to be about my birthday. I don’t want people to feel like they have to bring presents or anything, you know? I just want something low-key.”

“Of course, hon. Quiet, simple, and well-stocked with desserts. I’m on it.”

They say good night not long after, and while Jack’s already in bed, minutes from falling asleep, he’s sure that Bitty stay up for a couple hours yet, browsing Pinterest and planning menus. He’s promised to at least think about the team’s pre-season nutritional requirements as he gathers recipes, and that’s good enough for Jack. As for his birthday cake (or pie or torte or…), Jack’s requested something with apples, but otherwise he’s leaving it up to Bitty. He’s sure it will end up better than anything he could come up with on his own.

Comforted by that thought, he drifts to sleep, and resolves to invite some of this teammates to the party in the morning.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

The next week passes in a blur, as more of Jack’s new teammates return to Providence in preparation for the pre-season. Jack quietly invites a few more of them to the party, although he’s taken to calling it a “cookout,” because it sounds more relaxed and less terrifying. (For him, that is. He’s pretty sure none of them are intimidated by the idea of a party at the rookie’s apartment.) He mentions that he’ll have a couple former Samwell teammates there as well, and is surprised and flattered to find that a few of the Falconers paid close enough attention to Samwell’s Frozen Four performance that they recognize Bittle’s and Shitty’s names. (Tater, especially, seems eager to meet Bitty. “So tiny!” he says, every time Bitty’s name comes up. “But so fast! Makes very exciting game.”)

Bitty’s promised Jack that they’ll go grocery shopping for cookout supplies together, so he doesn’t have to worry about it beforehand, but he still doesn’t want to greet Bitty with bare cupboards. Well, they’re not bare, but— he doesn’t have any flour. He doesn’t have any brown sugar. He doesn’t have any _butter_.

That has to change. Jack doesn’t think he’s a strong enough man to withstand the avalanche of chirping Bitty would rain down at the sight of Jack’s “bachelor with an NHL meal plan” pantry. And while he wouldn’t be surprised by Jack’s minimally-outfitted kitchen, he might be (quietly, secretly) disappointed.

Jack goes to Bed Bath and Beyond and the grocery store, and this time, he does his research and makes a list. He won’t deprive Bitty of the joy of fully outfitting Jack’s kitchen ( _their kitchen_ ), but he also wants Bitty to be able to bake immediately upon arrival, if that’s what Bitty wants to do.

So he Googles _pie making essentials_ and  _well-stocked pantry_ and _essential baking ingredients_. With his carefully-organized list in hand, the trip is far less overwhelming than his Ikea expedition a few weeks prior. He weathers the relative chaos of Bed Bath and Beyond with aplomb, filling his basket with a pair of glass pie dishes, a bag of ceramic pie weights, a rolling pin, a pastry cutter, and a small set of decorative cookie cutters in short order.

“Oh, do you bake? Your mother must be so proud!” the clerk says, face alight with the pleasure of discovering a fellow cook.

“Ha, no,” Jack says. “Well, I mean. She might be. But—the one pie I made came out pretty lopsided. This is for my—for a friend.” He barely catches the “boyfriend” before it slips out, and he hates that he has to. She doesn’t seem to recognize him, but he can’t gamble on that.

If the clerk notices the near slip, she doesn’t mention it, and whatever strange emotions Jack feels must not show on his face, because she just smiles more broadly as she wraps the pie plates in newsprint. “How sweet of you. I hope your friend shares.”

Jack smiles back, and it almost feels natural. “Me too.”

With the necessary equipment in hand, it’s time for the grocery store. Jack heads straight for the “baking needs” aisle and begins filling his cart. Google hadn’t really prepared him for the wide array of flour choices, but as his backup plan is “buy one of everything” he’s not too worried. It’s not like flour goes bad, right?

He adds it all to the cart with a shrug and continues down the aisle.

He’s also not sure of the difference between light and dark brown sugar, so he buys one of each. White sugar, confectioner’s sugar, molasses, corn syrup—he cringes, but adds it to the cart anyway—and a small jar of maple sugar. Yeast. Baking soda, baking powder, corn starch, corn meal. Cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, ginger, apple and pumpkin pie spice. Sea salt and kosher salt, white and black pepper, every kind of extract on the shelf. A few blocks of high-quality baking chocolate. Oil. Shortening. (Bitty’s voice comes back to him: “Mama always told me never to marry a girl who uses off-brand shortening. She was kinda off the mark about the girl, but I trust her on the Crisco.”)

Satisfied that he has the essentials, even if he did have to buy out the baking aisle to be safe, Jack moves on to the refrigerated section, and has a brief debate with himself over how many pounds of butter to buy. In the end, he settles on four (does it freeze?) and hopes he’s judged rightly. He has milk already, he has eggs… and that should cover it, probably. It’s not as though Bitty won’t make at least three more trips to the grocery store during the week he’s there, after all.

Jack pulls his cap a little lower over his eyes as moves toward toward the checkout lanes, aware of what a batshit-crazy paparazzi photo this would make: NHL rookie Jack Zimmermann spotted with a cart full of baking supplies.

He’s cutting through the toiletries section when he decides to make the potential story just a little bit worse: NHL rookie Jack Zimmermann buys six different types of flour, four kinds of sugar, and a box of condoms.

Best to stick with the self checkout lanes, probably.

Before he starts loading his groceries onto the belt, he takes a quick photo and texts it to Shitty. It is a weird shopping trip, honestly, and it’ll make Shitty laugh.

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> This is what I’m doing today.
> 
> Please don’t sell this picture to Deadspin.

 

> **Shitty Knight:**
> 
> Whatever gets you off bro. Don’t let the media kinkshame you.
> 
> Let me guess: Bitty’s coming?
> 
> (FUCK YEAH HE IS)

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Yeah, he’ll be here next week, before he goes back to the Haus.
> 
> It’ll be nice.
> 
> …also I still don’t understand why eggplants mean sex.

 

> **Shitty Knight:**
> 
> “It’ll be nice” = stoic Canadian for “I’M SO EXCITED I COULD PEE”
> 
> No wonder you bought the entire baking aisle
> 
> You are gonna eat so much pie
> 
> (FUCK YEAH YOU ARE)

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Was that supposed to be innuendo?
> 
> That doesn’t even make sense.

 

> **Shitty Knight:**
> 
> Do I need to spell it out?

 

> **Jack Zimmermann:**
> 
> Please don’t.

 

Chuckling, Jack tucks his phone away so he can load his bags into the truck. The phone buzzes with one more message as Jack’s starting the truck, because of course Shitty has to get the last word.

 

> **Shitty Knight:**
> 
> For real though, bro, I can see your hearteyes AND your nervousness from here
> 
> But it’s gonna be great. You and Bits are something else.
> 
> Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do

 

As pep talks go, it’s more encouraging than it has any right to be, and Jack’s smile lingers at the corners of his mouth for the whole drive home. Once again, he’s glad he and Bitty decided to trust Shitty and Lardo with their secret.

His pantry looks much less sad after he’s put everything away, and Jack is briefly grateful that his mother and the realtor convinced him that a separate pantry cabinet was an important feature in a kitchen. (Even Jack didn’t understand, at the time, why the kitchen’s selling points mattered to him at all, but he’s glad he went with it.) He pictures Bitty opening the pantry door for the first time, seeing all his favorite baking ingredients arranged at eye level. In his imagination, Bitty gasps in delight, one hand flying to his mouth, and then Bitty spins around to face him, eyes wide, cheeks pink and pleased. It’s a compelling enough mental picture that Jack feels a rush of heat through his veins, but he pushes it away as best he can. The real thing will be so much more satisfying; he’d rather wait for it than ruin the moment by anticipating too much.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

The awareness that Bitty will be in his apartment _the day after tomorrow_ , coupled with the knowledge that he really doesn’t need to do anything else to prepare, makes Jack a little frantic, enough that even his teammates notice it.

“Extra coffee today, Zimmboni?” Tater asks, watching Jack’s knees bounce as he tapes his stick. “Very twitchy, not like you.”

Jack shrugs and tries to affect nonchalance. He suspects it just makes him look constipated. “Just excited to start the pre-season, I guess.”

“Hmm,” Tater says, and looks at Jack through narrowed eyes for a moment before shaking his head.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting weird about your birthday,” Thirdy says.

“Ooooh, yeah, you’re gonna be an old guy. Quarter of a century!” Rosey crows, and Thirdy snorts.

“That is not even a little bit old,” Thirdy says. “Just ‘cause you’re not old enough to drive yet—”

“Get ‘im, Grandpa!” someone—Snowy, maybe—yells across the locker room, and just like that, the guys’ attention shifts from Jack’s twitchy hands to Thirdy’s opinions on the advantages of age and experience over youth and “knees that don’t talk back in the mornings.”

Jack ducks his head and stills his knees, but he can’t do anything to quiet the anticipation thundering through his veins. Bitty’s going to be in his city, in his home and in his bed, in less than forty-eight hours, and even his nervousness about the party, about somehow slipping up and revealing everything in front of his new teammates, can’t quell his excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Mama Bittle's Crisco advice is basically a direct quote from my mother-in-law. Yes, I keep Crisco in my pantry, because I can take a hint.  
> -I don't really understand the eggplant emoji either, Jack. Just go with it.


	3. Chapter 3

Jack wakes up early, even by his standards, on the morning of Bitty’s arrival. He goes for a long run with Rosey first thing, partly because he has routines for a reason and partly because if he doesn’t burn off some nervous energy he’s going to vibrate right out of his skin before Bitty even gets off the plane.

“It’s too damn early for you to be this chipper,” Rosey grumbles, as though “chipper” is a word anyone has ever used to describe Jack Zimmermann at any time of day.

Jack shrugs but doesn’t break his pace. “Dunno, guess I slept well.”

“Got plans?” Rosey asks a few blocks and a hill later, slightly more out of breath.

“Friend from school’s flying in,” Jack says. “Picking him up around lunch time.”

“Right, your winger. Nice. He’ll be at your party?”

Jack nods. “It was his idea.”

Rosey grunts. “Sweet. If that’s why you’re so fuckin’ peppy, I approve.”

Jack snorts and tries to look like he’s not alarmed. Rosey obviously has no idea how close to the mark he actually is, but Jack can’t help worrying. He’s supposed to be a hockey robot; it shouldn’t be so hard to keep his emotions under wraps.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

Jack moves through the rest of his morning routine—stretch, shower, shave, breakfast—in a kind of hyper-aware autopilot. He roams around the apartment, double- and triple-checking everything he’s already prepared. Clean sheets on the bed and a spare set in the closet. Four pounds of butter, untouched since his shopping trip. Milk and eggs, lunch supplies and fruit for baking, all well-stocked. The shower’s scrubbed, the floors are clean, the balcony’s swept. He tries to settle down with a book, but he finds himself re-reading the same paragraph over and over before he sets it aside with an irritated huff. Time expands and contracts in odd ways; the morning stretches on endlessly, fifteen minutes taking an hour to go by, until suddenly it’s time to leave for the airport.

His stomach leaps as he pulls up the GPS on his phone and sets it to take him to T.F. Green.  Bitty’s flight gets in at 12:15, and he has checked luggage, so realistically, Jack will be fine if he gets there by 12:45 or so. But Jack doesn’t want to waste a single second of Bitty’s time in Providence; every minute that Bitty spends waiting for him outside the baggage claim is a minute Jack can’t spend with him. Unacceptable.

The traffic gods smile on him, though, and despite lane closures on I-95, he makes it to the airport a solid ten minutes before Bitty’s plane. There’s a Starbucks kiosk across from the baggage claim, and Jack’s briefly tempted, but he doesn’t really need the caffeine or the weird breath right now. Instead, he pulls his hat low over his eyes and settles onto a nearby bench. He opens the Kindle app on his phone, intending to read, but he can’t stop watching the arrivals board. The moment that Bitty’s flight status switches from “on time” to “landed”, Jack’s excitement ratchets up another notch. His knee jiggles arrhythmically, and he doesn’t even bother trying to read anymore, too eager for his first glimpse of Bitty in nearly a month.

Probably best he skipped the extra coffee.

Ten minutes or so creep by before another wave of passengers filters into the baggage claim, arranging themselves around the Delta section. Jack’s heart rate speeds up as he scans the crowd.

And then Bitty’s there, still a good twenty meters away but instantly recognizable. Jack’s breath catches in his throat at Bitty’s familiar silhouette, his pale tousled hair, and his wide, wide smile.

Jack’s smiling to match, and he knows, he _knows_ it all shows on his face right now, but he doesn’t remotely care, not when Bitty’s closing the distance between them, flinging his arms around Jack’s waist and burying his face against Jack’s chest. Jack swears he can feel the light of Bitty’s smile against his skin.

 _No one’s recognized me yet_ , Jack thinks, in a moment of reckless happiness, and he presses his face to the top of Bitty’s head. Bitty smells like stale airplane air and coconut-tinged shampoo and home. Jack can’t get enough of it.

“God, I missed you,” Bitty says, face still pressed into Jack’s chest.

Jack just nods and squeezes Bitty tighter, too overwhelmed to say anything. They cling to each other a few seconds longer, heedless of the other passengers milling around them. Then the baggage carousel grumbles to life, and Bitty pulls away. His cheeks are pink, and he has freckles that weren’t there when Jack visited at the beginning of the month.

“I’ve got two bags,” Bitty says, as they turn towards the carousel. “My big hockey duffel plus a navy suitcase with a rainbow ribbon on the handle.”

The suitcase comes around almost immediately, but the duffel takes longer. Bitty stays close to Jack’s side while they wait, and Jack’s intensely aware of every place they’re touching, and every place they’re not.

“Was your flight okay?” Jack asks, surprised Bitty’s not already chattering.

“Uneventful,” Bitty says, and then chuckles. “Y’know, I spent the whole flight thinking about how I couldn’t wait to see you in person and talk face-to-face, and now that I’m finally here—” He looks at his feet and shakes his head. “I just want to wrap myself around you and not say a word for hours.”

Well, if _that_ doesn’t sum up Jack’s feelings perfectly. He takes Bitty’s hand and squeezes it ever-so-briefly, before he reaches forward grab the hockey bag from the conveyor belt. “Let’s go home,” he whispers, and hopes he can remember the expression on Bitty’s face for the rest of his life.

They finally kiss in the cab of Jack’s truck with the tinted windows to shield them. Bitty sighs against Jack’s lips and teases his fingers through the hair curling at Jack’s nape. “You have no idea how much I missed you,” he says, soft and intimate even with no one around to hear them.

“Hm, I think I have _some_ idea,” Jack says, dipping his head for another kiss. Bitty scoots as close as he can with the center console in the way, tightening his fingers in Jack’s hair. Jack traces his fingers over Bitty’s chest and across the elegant line of his collarbone to rest beneath the wide strap of his tank top. His skin is as every bit smooth and warm as Jack remembers, as addictive and easy to touch.

Bitty shivers. “I believe you promised to take me home, Mr. Zimmermann,” he says in a low smoky tone that crackles along Jack’s spine.

Jack pulls back. “Right,” he says, shaking his head in hopes of clearing it. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

Sooner than Jack knows what to do with, he and Bitty are alone behind the locked door of his apartment. The sense of freedom that settles over him is stunning, almost disorienting. He wants to do everything at once: kiss Bitty and hold him close, undress him as quickly as he can, draw it out till they’re both begging, curl up with him on the couch, show him the kitchen and the pantry and the view of Providence at night from the balcony—

In the end, Bitty takes the first step, just as he did at the airport. He drops his bags to the floor and gathers Jack close, fisting his hands in Jack’s t-shirt. “… _so_ _much_ ,” he whispers, muffled against Jack’s chest. “Missed you so much.” Bitty takes a deep breath, then pulls back. His eyes are a little red, but his smile is wide and genuine. “Now show me this kitchen I’ve heard so much about.”

“I think you’ve seen most of it on Skype,” Jack says, but he guides him through the doorway with a hand on the small of his back, skin abuzz with anticipation.

Bitty’s delighted gasp is everything Jack hoped for. One hand flies to cover his mouth, exactly as it had in Jack’s imagination. Unable to resist showing off any longer, he reaches around Bitty to nudge the pantry door open. It takes Bitty a moment to realize what he’s seeing, and then he spins around, laughing and surprised and so damn beautiful that for a moment Jack can’t breathe.

“Now, I _know_ you didn’t buy all this flour for yourself,” he says, and Jack can tell he’s trying for accusatory, but he’s much too happy to hit that mark.

“I basically bought the entire baking aisle last week,” Jack confesses. “There’s four pounds of butter in the fridge, too.”

For the third time in an hour, Bitty flings himself into Jack’s arms with enough force to knock the breath out of him. “Oh my Lord, honey,” he whispers. “Oh my _Lord_.” He leans back just enough to look up at Jack, brown eyes soft. “How’d I get so lucky?”

“You deserve good things,” Jack says, because it’s the true and obvious answer.

Bitty’s only reply is to stand on his tiptoes and wind his arms around Jack’s neck. “Honey, if you don’t kiss me right this minute, I think I’m gonna die.”

Jack’s only too happy to oblige, and without the awkward topography of the truck cab to interfere, the kiss turns heated in an instant. Bitty is so warm, pressing against Jack like he can’t ever get close enough. Jack slides his hands over Bitty’s bare shoulders and down the firm sweeping line of his back to settle over his hips. Bitty’s already hard against Jack’s thigh, and he gasps softly into Jack’s mouth when Jack pulls him closer. The sound sends sparks racing down Jack’s spine, and he gives into temptation, slipping both hands over Bitty’s ass to grip his thighs. Bitty gets the idea immediately and wraps his arms more tightly around Jack’s shoulders so Jack can lift him. They kiss for a few long minutes like that, Bitty’s legs around Jack’s waist and Jack’s hands firmly under Bitty’s ass, before Jack walks him back a few steps to set him on the kitchen island.

They break apart just long enough for Jack to pull Bitty’s tank top off and toss it aside. At the first touch of Jack’s mouth to his collarbone, over his chest to his small pink nipples, Bitty lets out a sigh that slips into a moan. He can’t seem to decide if he wants to tug Jack closer or push him away to get his shirt off, too, and suddenly Jack can’t breath for wanting to feel skin on skin. He doesn’t even bother unbuttoning his shirt all the way, just pulls it over his head and lets it drop. On impulse, he steps out of his jeans, too, kicking them aside so he’s standing in front of Bitty in a pair of boxer briefs that do very little in the way of concealment.

Bitty leans back on his elbows, flushed down to his navel and breathing hard, and gazes at Jack with unadorned desire. “How are you even real?” he whispers, and Jack _has_ to surge forward and kiss him again.

He eases Bitty down and back, one hand behind his head to cushion it from the cold granite of the island. With the other, he fumbles open Bitty’s fly while Bitty clutches at his shoulders. He gasps aloud when Jack wraps his hand around them both and gives a long slow stroke. Jack pulls back just enough to meet Bitty’s eyes, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

“Yes, yes, oh my god, yes,” Bitty says, his hips hitching up in tiny urgent stutters. He tugs Jack back down, kissing him messy and hungry, undone in a way Jack hasn’t seen him before.

It’s over very quickly after that, a wild few minutes of frantic touching and panting into each other’s mouths, but Jack’s not bothered. After all, they have the whole week stretching out ahead them. There will be plenty of time for hours of lazy, languid exploration. In the meantime, that was _hot_.

They clean themselves up slowly and get dressed again, stealing glances at each other the whole time.

“Well,” Bitty says, when he finally hops off the counter. “That’s one way of breaking in the kitchen.”

Jack just chuckles, because that’s exactly how he’d hoped to christen it. “Are you hungry? I’ve got stuff for sandwiches and salad.”

“I could eat,” Bitty says. “And then maybe make us a pie for later? You know, since you bought all that stuff…”

“There are strawberries and blueberries in the fridge,” Jack says. “Go nuts. I’ll take care of making lunch.”

Bitty sighs happily, stretching up to plant a kiss on Jack’s cheek. “You’re gonna spoil me something rotten,” he says.

“You say that, but I’m the one getting free pie out of this.” Jack pulls plates and glasses out of the cupboard, realizing as he does that he hasn’t someone over to eat in his apartment since Shitty visited in June.

Bitty eats his sandwich distractedly, too busy getting to know Jack’s kitchen to pay much attention to what he’s putting in his mouth. Jack just leans against the counter, enjoying Bitty’s soft hums of approval and exclamations of delight. He gives it ten minutes, tops, before Bitty connects his phone to the speaker system, wipes down the counter, and gets to baking. Jack figures the best thing he can do is step back and let it happen, so after he carries Bitty’s bags to the bedroom, he sets up at the dining room table with his laptop and some last-season Falconers’ tape. He’s kidding himself if he thinks he’ll actually be able to focus, but it’s better than standing in the kitchen making eyes at Bitty and getting in the way of pie production.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

They fall back into each other’s orbit quickly, just as they did in Madison. A year of living together in the Haus, plus the time they spent playing on the same line, had made them comfortable in each other’s presence long before Jack’s graduation-day dash across campus. They’d studied together, cooked together, sprawled together in the living room watching _Golden Girls_ with Holster, and all the while Jack privately marveled at how easy it was to be with Bitty, how undemanding yet reassuring his company was. Here in his apartment is just as easy, but even better: he can let his hand linger on Bitty’s shoulder when he passes him in the kitchen. He can pull Bitty close for a hug, and not only “just bros” roughhousing. He’d worried, early in the summer, that kissing Bitty would change the hard-won rapport they’d established. It had been so long, after all, since Jack had been in a relationship, and he’d learned a long time ago that not much about his relationship with Parse translated well to other people.

But with Bitty, it’s stayed easy: their conversations and their silences, they way they fit so neatly into each other’s spaces. Jack curls around him in bed that night, quietly thrilled to have Bitty asleep in his arms, soft snores and all.

Jack decided in advance to allow himself at least one morning without an alarm when Bitty visits, and he’s inexpressibly grateful for it when he wakes up the next morning, at least an hour past his usual time. The morning sunlight filters in through his curtains, pleasantly warm on his bare skin. It casts the whole room in a yellow glow, catching the highlights in Bitty’s hair and making his light tan glow.

Bitty sighs in his sleep, and rolls over onto his back. He’s pushed the covers down to his waist, and in the morning light, still soft with slumber, he is the most breathtaking creature Jack can imagine. His hands itch for his camera, but even the click of the shutter would be too loud in the silent bedroom.

Bitty rolls over again, this time to face Jack, and his eyes open slowly. A lazy smile spreads across his face, and he reaches up to brush Jack’s hair away from his forehead.

It’s a cliche out of every romantic movie Jack’s ever seen. He loves it so much it hurts.

“Hey, darlin’,” Bitty whispers, voice still rough with sleep. It’s… hot. It’s very hot. “Sleep well?”

Jack nods, still a little speechless in the face of a doe-eyed, sleep-rumpled Eric Bittle.

Bitty scoots away enough to stretch out his arms and legs like a starfish, letting out a pleased little sound that goes straight to Jack’s cock. “Lord, this is a nice mattress.” He tips his head to look at Jack. “I might never get up.”

“We can spend all day here,” Jack says. “I’m okay with that.”

Bitty grins. “I’ve never spent all day in bed with someone. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever spent all day in bed at _all_ , unless I’m sick.”

Jack grins. “Me neither. Wanna try?”

Bitty puts on a thoughtful face, but his eyes are still dancing. “Will there be breaks for food? Because you know there’s still pie in the kitchen.”

Jack matches his serious expression, because saying ridiculous things in his media voice never fails to make Bitty laugh. “Every athlete knows how important it is to keep their bodies fueled for maximum performance. Pie is a great source of fruit, cinnamon, and butter, three of the most important food groups for hockey players.”

Bitty breaks down into giggles, just as Jack hoped he would. “The Falcs nutritionist just felt actual pain, and she has no idea why.”

“I’m sorry, Bits, are you suggesting that pie _isn’t_ a superfood?” Jack leans closer, fixing him with an intense stare. “Butter deficiency is a serious condition that affects one in four Americans, you know.”

Bitty laughs and laughs. “Pie’ll cure what ails you,” he agrees, and he sounds _so happy_. It’s not an effect Jack ever really thought he’d have on anyone, let alone anyone like Bitty.

He sounds as happy as Jack feels.

He pulls Bitty close, enjoying the warmth that radiates from his skin, loving the strong, compact lines of his body. And since Bitty’s shoulder is right there, it’s the most natural thing in the world to press a kiss to it, and then another and another, along the line of his collarbone and over his chest. Bitty sighs and shifts against him, running a hand through Jack’s hair.

Taking that for the invitation that it is, Jack rolls them till Bitty’s on his back looking up at him through half-closed eyes. “Good morning,” Jack says.

“It really is,” Bitty replies, almost dreamily. “Now stop teasing and kiss me already.”

Well, what can Jack do but obey?

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

Several very satisfying mutual orgasms, two cups of coffee, three slices of pie, and a nap later, Jack finally breaks. “I gotta get up and move around, Bits,” he says with an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry.”

Bitty just laughs, and Jack doesn’t think he’s imagining the note of relief. “Oh my God, me too. This has been fun, but all day? I don’t think I can do it.”

Jack looks down at himself. “Plus I could use a shower. I’m…kinda sticky.”

“That’s as much your fault as mine, Mr. Zimmermann,” Bitty says tartly. “And I’m sure not apologizing.”

Jack pulls fresh boxers from the dresser. “I hoped you could help me with kitchen stuff,” he says. “I’ve got the basics, but not everything. I thought we could try that store I told you about, Stock? If you want.”

Bitty looks up from where he’s crouched by his suitcase, selecting clothes and digging for his toiletries. “If I want. Good Lord, like I’m gonna turn down a chance to outfit that beautiful kitchen.” He shakes his head. “I’m gonna rely on you to set reasonable limits, you know.”

Jack shrugs. “If you think we need it, then we need it. I think I’m good for it.”

Bitty mutters something that sounds a lot like “…the death of me,” and turns back to his suitcase.

Jack’s shower is huge, so naturally they try to shower at the same time. It proves… distracting. Not water-efficient, and not really conducive to actual cleanliness, but definitely rewarding in other ways. When they finally make it out the door, it’s well past lunch time, and their pie-and-coffee breakfast is a distant memory. They stop at the same sandwich place Rosey took Jack and Poots to, and Bitty eats his duck-fat chips one by one with an expression of deep concentration on his face, licking off his fingers when he’s done. It’s enough to make Jack forget about his own sandwich entirely, despite the rumbling in his stomach. From the way Bitty chirps him about it, that may have been his plan all along.

When they finally make it to Stock, Bitty stops dead just inside the door, mouth open. “Oh my God, Jack. Are you seeing this place?”

Jack smiles, and guides Bitty a little further in with a hand at the small of his back. “Are you gonna survive?”

“Don’t you chirp me; I am having a _moment_ ,” Bitty says, and Jack has to look away, because if he spends one more second staring at Bitty’s wide, bright eyes, he’s going to kiss him, right here in front of God and the knife display and half the hipsters in Providence.

It’s easier—safer—to just trail behind Bitty with a cart, offering input when asked, but mostly absorbing Bitty’s happiness, enjoying his murmured monologue and soft exclamations of delight. “Oh my God, Weck jars. And Dansk. And this cutting board is _shaped like Rhode Island_ , Lord give me strength. Jack, tell me I should not buy a cutting board shaped like Rhode Island.”

“You should not buy a cutting board shaped like Rhode Island,” Jack repeats. “You should buy one shaped like Georgia. It’s bigger.”

In the end, they buy the cutting board (shaped like Georgia, with a tiny wood-burned peach in the corner), a nice set of stainless steel cookware, and an enameled cast iron Dutch oven that Jack thinks Bitty might actually cry over. The store’s full of other goodies, from hand-printed tea towels to high-end sea salt to whimsical bottle openers, but it’s too overwhelming for one trip, and Jack suspects Bitty’s starting to feel guilty over how much money they’re spending.

(Besides, in order for Bitty to pick up more things, he’d have to put down the Dutch oven, and Jack doesn’t think that’s going to happen any time soon.)

The cashier recognizes Jack, but she’s polite about it, and Bitty’s overwhelmed smile has Jack in such a good mood that he’s more than happy to pose for a picture on the store’s Instagram. He even lets them tag his account in it.

“That was fun,” Jack says, as they load their purchases into the truck.

Bitty nods. “That place is too good. I think I’m still in shock.” He’s unusually quiet as Jack starts the truck and turns towards home. They pass a few blocks in silence before he finally speaks again. “You know I’m not— you know I’m not in this so I can do things like that, right?”

“What?” Jack says, surprise making his tone harsher than he intends. “No, I—Bitty, no, it’s never crossed my mind.” He glances over at Bitty, but Bitty’s staring out the window, a strange twist to his mouth.

“Okay,” Bitty says. “It just feels weird, you know? I’m used to paying my own way and—my parents do okay, but we’ve never been rich, and— I just don’t want you to think I’m taking advantage, or something.”

Jack reaches out to squeeze Bitty’s knee. “Bits,” he says, considering his words carefully. “I’m… Look, there’s no way to say this that’s not weird: I _did_ grow up rich, and I can tell, mostly, when people are trying to use me for my money or my name or—whatever. But that’s never been you. You’re—you see _me_. It’s fine. You’re fine.”

Bitty’s frown relaxes, but Jack’s sure this isn’t the only time they’ll have some variant on this conversation. Better, though, to talk it through—better to be aware that it could be an issue. It’s a good sign, he thinks. He hopes it’s a good sign.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

When they get back to the apartment, they’re both too tired to think about making anything fancy for dinner. Instead, they ransack the fridge for omelet makings. Jack chops and dices on the new Georgia cutting board while Bitty whisks the eggs and makes pleased noises about the skillet they picked out.

They sit shoulder to shoulder on the couch to eat while ESPN plays in the background. When they’re finished, Bitty takes their plates into the kitchen, returning with a slice of leftover pie.

“None for you, Bittle?” Jack asks, eyeing the single plate and fork.

Bitty just sticks out his tongue, and then climbs onto Jack’s lap, straddling his thighs with the pie between them. He raises the first bite to his mouth, closing his lips around the fork, dragging it out slowly.

“Oh,” Jack says, more breath than speech, and his skin heats. He opens his mouth obediently for the forkful of pie that Bitty offers him and licks the crumbs from his lips after he swallows. Bitty feeds him the pie slowly, maintaining eye contact all the while, and it’s far more erotic than Jack could ever have expected. Bitty is heavy across Jack’s thighs, and when Jack takes the empty plate from his hands and leans forward to kiss him, his mouth is sweet with berries and honey.

They stay like that for a long time, unhurried hands and gentle mouths, quiet in the evening’s glow. Bitty drapes his arms over Jack’s shoulders, and Jack rests his hands on Bitty’s hips, rucking up his t-shirt just enough to rest his fingertips against bare skin.

When Bitty eventually tugs at his shoulders, Jack goes willingly, and he lays Bitty down on the sofa with careful hands. He pulls off his shirt, and sits back enough to let Bitty strip out of his, and then they’re pressed together skin-to-skin. Bitty’s legs spread to bracket Jack’s hips, and his pulse quickens beneath Jack’s lips, while his hands move restlessly over Jack’s back and shoulders.

They’re both hard, and Jack’s arousal is a low steady drumbeat at the back of his mind, but he can ignore it for now. He could kiss Bitty like this for hours, could let himself be swept away by Bitty’s soft gasps and contented sighs. They’re good at this now that they’ve learned each other’s preferences and found their own rhythm. Jack wouldn’t trade those first few nervous kisses for anything, nor their careful fumbling the back of Coach’s truck, but this is… well, this feels like a revelation. He knows what Bitty tastes like now, knows the sounds he makes when he comes, and each new discovery feels like a treasure.

They pull apart for a moment, both a little out of breath. “Should we relocate this?” Bitty asks. His cheeks are flushed beneath his summer tan.

“Nope,” Jack says. “You’re the one who told me I need to make memories in this apartment. So we’re making memories on the couch.”

Bitty laughs. “That’s not really what I meant, but okay.”

“And we already christened the kitchen, so…”

Bitty grins. “So get down here and let’s make some memories, baby.”

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

Jack wakes up early the next morning, creeping quietly out of bed to avoid waking Bitty, and pulling on his shoes to run two easy loops of his usual route. He enjoyed their lazy day yesterday, but it feels good to get back to his routine and shake some of the stiffness from his muscles.

Bitty’s still asleep when he gets back, so Jack downs a protein shake while he starts the coffee; he’ll have a real breakfast with Bitty when he wakes up. He unloads the dishwasher while the coffee brews, and already, he can see more signs of Bitty’s influence: the Falconers blue Dutch oven that they picked out together sitting on the stove, the stainless steel frying pan they made dinner in last night, the Georgia-shaped cutting board propped up in the drying rack. Not much has really changed, but the apartment is warmer and brighter just by Bitty’s presence. Jack knows he’s there, asleep in Jack’s (in their) bed, and that’s enough. It feels… the way it’s supposed to feel, or rather, the way Jack always hoped it would feel, having a partner and sharing his life.

He takes his coffee out onto the balcony and sips it while he watches the sun rise. It’s a bright clear morning; he can see for miles. After a moment’s consideration, he slips his phone from his pocket and sets his coffee mug on the railing. It takes a few tries, but he finally gets a shot he’s pleased with: the Samwell mug slightly off-center in the foreground, and Providence laid out hazy and warm behind it. He uploads it to Instagram and captions it “quiet morning at home” without really thinking about it.

It’s a platitude, yes, but it feels true in a way it didn’t a month ago. Jack doesn’t know the city well enough to love it yet, but he’s starting to think he could. And on a smaller scale… He wraps his hands around the faded red mug, the one his parents bought him when he moved into his freshman dorm, and he thinks of Bitty’s pale hair mussed against the dark leather of his couch and Bitty’s shorts crumpled at the foot of the bed. The whole apartment feels more like home—like someplace a person (like Jack) might actually live. He resolves once again to get more things on the walls—to bug Lardo again about that painting, and to pick out some of his photos to frame. Maybe Bitty can help him narrow down his choices. (And while he’s at it, he should find a good picture of Bitty. It shouldn’t be hard; Bitty is ridiculously photogenic. For his nightstand or something. That’s something people do, right?)

By the time he goes back inside to refill his coffee, his post has gathered a few dozen likes and several comments, but when he scrolls through them, he doesn’t feel the spike of anxiety he usually associates with social media notifications. Maybe Bitty’s right. Maybe he can do this.

Jack’s on the sofa with a library book and his second mug of coffee when Bitty finally staggers into the living room, yawning widely. “Hey, Bits,” he says, setting the book aside and uncurling enough for Bitty to crawl onto the couch beside him. Bitty takes the invitation, settling in under the curve of his arm and resting his head against Jack’s chest. “Sleep okay?” Jack asks.

“Mmmhmm. ‘S a really nice mattress.”

Jack kisses the top of his head. “Want a cup of coffee?”

“In a sec.” It’s clear Bitty’s still waking up, and he’s never been a morning person, even when Jack’s not pulling him out of bed for pre-dawn checking practices. For now he seems content to snuggle against Jack’s side in silence.

On impulse, Jack grabs his phone from the arm of the sofa and pulls up the camera app. He holds it out in front of them, angling it till they’re both in the frame, and leans down to press another kiss to Bitty’s hair before he snaps the picture. They both have their eyes closed, but there’s a small fond smile on Bitty’s lips, and Jack himself—

“Oh, that’s a good one,” Bitty says, looking at the screen. “You look so happy.” He sounds… not surprised, but awed, perhaps. There’s wonder in his tone, and Jack understands why. Hell, Jack shares it. He does look happy—happy and relaxed and in love and so many other things he didn’t think someone like him could get to feel.

He saves the picture. It’s not for Instagram—not yet, and maybe not ever—but it’s for him, for them. A reminder when he needs it, as he knows he will. “I am,” he says. “You make me look like that.”

It’s sappy and gross and he half-expects Bitty to laugh at him, or make a face, but Bitty just smiles and rests his head on Jack’s shoulder. “Me too, honey.”

After a leisurely breakfast and an even more leisurely shower, they let the beautiful weather lure them out of the apartment again. Bitty agrees to go see a couple of historic sites without too much convincing, and once they leave the historic houses behind and explore the North Burial Ground, he’s as excited about it as Jack. The first burials there date from the early eighteenth century, and they spend a pleasant few hours searching out the oldest graves and the strangest old-fashioned names.

Jack’s enjoying the opportunity to really put his camera through its paces—something he hasn’t done much of since wrapping up his senior project—and the details of crumbling headstones, imposing family crypts, and unusual epitaphs make fascinating subjects.

He pauses for a long time at the grave of two young boys—brothers—who died by drowning in 1899. The headstone is immaculately kept, the lettering still crisp, and he lingers over the epitaph: _They were lovely in their lives, and in their death they were not divided._

Bitty comes up beside him and slips an arm around Jack’s waist as he takes in the headstone. “Oh,” he says softly. “That’s so sad.”

Jack nods. “I like the epitaph, though. It’s…comforting, I think.” He snaps a quick picture, more to remember the line than anything else, and then turns away reluctantly. The afternoon sun is getting overly warm on the back of his neck, and he’s sure Bitty is as hungry as he is.

He makes a note to come back, though. He didn’t hunt them down today, mostly for Bitty’s sake, but he knows there are a number of historical figures buried here and he’d like to find their graves, not to mention take more pictures. It’s a good place, a quiet place. He needs that some days.

“You’re a good tour guide,” Bitty says, when they finally get some lunch. “You’re really into this stuff. I like it.”

Jack flushes and looks down at his plate. He’s already gotten some ribbing from his teammates about his degree, and while he knows they don’t mean anything by it, he also knows a bachelor’s in history isn’t common among NHL players. But he genuinely enjoyed it, and it’s nice to have an outlet for it sometimes.

After lunch, they hit the grocery store so Bitty can pick up what he needs for the next day’s party. In his happiness over Bitty’s visit, Jack had almost forgotten about his birthday, not to mention the party. His stomach twists with nerves as he looks over the menu Bitty prepared.

“This seems like a lot, Bits,” he says. “Are you sure you want to do all this? You really don’t have to.”

Bitty waves his hand dismissively. “Honey, you saw the Fourth of July spread my mama and I put together. And you were there for Hausgiving last year. This is nothing.”

Jack frowns. It’s not that he’s unconvinced—he knows Bitty’s used to feeding hockey players, and he knows Bitty enjoys it. He’s just…

“Hey,” Bitty says softly, glancing around quickly before squeezing his hand. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. But I think it’ll be good.”

“No, you’re right. It’s just Shitty and Lardo and a few guys, and I’ve been skating with them most of the summer. I’m just… not good at this sort of thing.”

Bitty squeezes his hand one more time before letting go. “I got your back,” he says.

It helps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -North Burial Ground is a real place (where I have never been), but the boys' grave they encounter is from Rock Creek Cemetery in Washington, DC. I saw the headstone and inscription there a few years ago, and they've stuck with me, so I took the liberty of adding them here.  
> -Stock is also a real store. I'm not normally in the habit of advertising via fic, but it seemed like exactly the sort of place Bitty would die of bliss in--and I thought that soft bro/accidental-hipster Jack might enjoy it, too, for the local craftsmen aspect.  
> -Fair warning: the sex only gets schmoopier from here. Lucky us!


	4. Chapter 4

Jack wakes the next day feeling like he has an iron band around his chest, keeping him from taking a proper breath. Before he’s even fully opened his eyes, he’s itchy under his skin, restless, with an unshakable sense of impending doom. He doesn’t have days like this often anymore, but when he does, they never end well.

Even Bitty, sleeping beside him in their ridiculously big bed, isn’t a comfort. How can he be, when it’s so unbelievably selfish of Jack to ask him to hide again. Bitty shouldn’t have to—Bitty should never have to—and how fucking naive is it to believe that either of them could pull it off anyway? Jack knows how he feels when he looks at Bitty; he knows how Bitty looks at him. They’ll be caught out in an instant, so why on earth did he think it was a good idea to host a party with Bitty, to spend a couple hours pretending to strangers that they’re just friends?

It can’t possibly work.

It can’t possibly end well.

His breathing speeds up as his chest tightens further, and he shivers despite the warmth of the morning sun. When he clenches his fists to keep his hands from shaking, his nails dig into his palms.

“Sweetheart?” Bitty’s sleep-slow voice breaks through his racing thoughts. Jack rolls onto his back, but he doesn’t think he can look Bitty full in the face right now. “Jack, can I touch you?”

Jack nods, and Bitty spreads his palm across Jack’s chest. Jack squeezes his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the worry on Bitty’s face when he feels Jack’s pounding heart. He tries to take a deep breath, but it comes out shuddering and ragged.

“Okay,” Bitty says, and Jack hates himself for putting the uncertain note in Bitty’s voice. “Okay, honey, can we try something? Roll back over onto your side, and I can spoon you, is that okay?”

Jack does as Bitty asks, although cuddling has never been able to stop a panic attack. There’s only one thing apart from time that’s ever really been able to stop a panic attack, and he doesn’t let himself keep that in the medicine cabinet anymore. But physical closeness doesn’t hurt either, so…

Bitty curls up behind him, tucking his knees behind Jack’s thighs and pressing his face to the back of Jack’s neck. Every muscle in Jack’s body is painfully tight; he’s afraid if he relaxes at all he’ll shatter to pieces. Bitty wraps his arm around Jack’s chest, spreading his hand out over Jack’s sternum again. Then Bitty takes a deep breath, and the warm gust of his exhale ruffles the hair at Jack’s nape.

“Can you feel me breathing?” Bitty asks. “Can you feel my chest moving in and out?” The unsure note is still there, but his voice is calm and even. Bitty takes another deep breath, pressing himself closer against Jack’s back.

Jack nods.

“Good. Okay. Do you think you can breathe with me? Can we try that?” He takes another deep breath while Jack struggles to keep pace. Bitty’s hand on his chest is a comforting pressure; Jack tries to push against it with his next inhale. “Now hold it,” Bitty says, quiet against his skin. “And let it out—slow, slow, slow. That’s good. That’s so good. Let’s do it again—inhale with me…”

They manage five or six slow steady breaths like that before Jack’s concentration wavers—he’s still clenching all his muscles against a pain that doesn’t ease, and it _hurts_ , fuck, it hurts. It punches the breath right out of him, and then he’s shaking again, shaking and curling into himself, and the storm in his head howls so loudly he can barely hear Bitty’s calm voice behind him.

Bitty presses his hand more firmly against Jack’s chest. “Babe. Jack. Stay with me, honey. I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. Jack, honey, I’ve got you, please—”

His voice cracks over the last words, and that tiny sound hits Jack like a slap. He struggles to surface again, to take a breath deep enough to push back against Bitty’s hand. The roaring in his ears sounds like the roaring of the ocean. He can’t keep doing this, he can’t make Bitty sound like that, but he is so, so tired and it’s so, so hard. Another breath.

 _Fuck_ , but it hurts. ( _Does drowning hurt?_ he wonders, in a moment of hysterical clarity. It’s always seemed like a peaceful way to go, but if it’s anything like this—)

Another breath.

Behind him, Bitty holds on, and keeps breathing and talking and coaching. It’s not— it’s not quite a lifeline, but it’s a point of reference. A buoy he can swim towards.

Another breath, slower this time. A little deeper, a little steadier.

“That’s good, hon, that’s so good. Just keep doing what you’re doing, okay?”

Slowly, slowly, the panic recedes. The bands around his chest loosen. His muscles relax and his fists unclench. Bitty rubs his hand gently over Jack’s chest, and kisses the back of his neck. Jack doesn’t know how long he’s been like this—anxiety erodes his sense of time—but he’s exhausted like he’s just played a hard shift.

“Better?” Bitty whispers.

Jack nods. “Getting there,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Okay. I’m here as long as it takes. As long as you need me, okay?”

Jack nods again and relaxes a little more into the blankets. He’s so, so tired.

They stay curled together while Jack drifts in and out of sleep. Bitty remains steady as a rock behind him, and Jack would marvel at his luck if only he had the energy.

Eventually he’s able to turn over in Bitty’s arms, even if seeing the worry written across Bitty’s face almost sets him off again. “There you are,” Bitty murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, and it’s no less sincere for being automatic.

Bitty lifts his hand to stroke Jack’s cheek. “Darlin’, you’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

Jack doubts that’s true, but he doesn’t have the energy to argue. Instead, he closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth of Bitty’s fingers against his skin.

“What brought this on? Do you know?” Bitty asks, sounding hesitant.

Jack frowns. It’s everything and nothing in particular, all at once. It’s the party tonight, but it’s not that at all. It’s the weight of daily life. It’s the way he’s wired. It’s… He shakes his head. “Some days I wake up feeling like I can’t breathe. And sometimes I can keep going anyway and sometimes I just… can’t.” He was well into adolescence before he realized that not everyone went through life like that; some days it’s still a surprise to wake up and _not_ feel like he’s suffocating.

Bitty nods like that’s a satisfying explanation. “Does the party tonight have anything to do with it?” he asks. “I’m startin’ to feel like I pushed you into it, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

Jack shrugs as best he can lying down. “Yes and no. If it wasn’t that it was gonna be something else, you know?” His mouth twists and he tries not to sound bitter. “There’s always something else. But I want to do it, okay? I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t think it was a good idea.”

Now it’s Bitty’s turn to make a face. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Jack says, and means it.

They fall silent after that, curled into each other with their hands tucked between them. Bitty actually dozes off for a little while, the worry lines that Jack put between his brows erased for the moment. Jack doesn’t do more than shut his eyes against the morning sun, but when the buzz of Bitty’s phone on the nightstand finally rouses both of them for good, he thinks he can face the day after all.

Bitty rolls over just long enough to dismiss the notification, then turns back to Jack. “Any better?”

Jack’s smile comes more easily than it would have even half an hour ago. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s… can we just start the day over?”

Bitty’s face softens. “Yeah, we can do that.”

Jack takes a deep breath and tries not to feel ridiculous. “Okay. How’d you sleep?”

“Mmm, pretty good,” Bitty says, playing along. He stretches luxuriously, wiggling his fingers and toes. “Good Lord, I love this bed. Have I mentioned that?”

“Once or twice. I’ve gotta say, it’s much better when you’re in it,” Jack says, and god, what a ridiculous line that is. But Bitty laughs and follows easily when Jack tugs him up till he’s straddling Jack’s hips, so it can’t be that bad.

“Oh Lord, is _that_ the ‘Zimmermann charm’ your dad was talking about?” Bitty runs his hands over Jack’s chest, and his eyes sparkle with mirth—and if Jack was the reason for Bitty’s earlier worry, well, at least he can be the reason for his laughter, too.

“Depends,” he says. “Is it working?”

“Turns out I’m easy,” Bitty says, scooting back on Jack’s thighs and sliding his fingers under the waistband of Jack’s boxers. “Now come on, help me get these off so we can start this morning off right.”

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

The day passes in a bustle of food prep and cleaning. The apartment’s really not that messy, but action helps Jack stay grounded, and it’s not as if a bathroom can be _too_ clean. Once that’s done, and he’s swept the patio and vacuumed and corralled the laundry into the closet, Jack rejoins Bitty in the kitchen. He sets to work chopping vegetables for kebabs, while Bitty mixes seasoning into the ground beef.

“See, if you pick a menu you can mostly prep ahead of time, everything’s real easy once the guests arrive,” Bitty explains, patting out neat little circles of hamburger and stacking them on a plate between pieces of waxed paper. “And grilling’s nice because it’s kind of a social activity anyway. Now, if you don’t mind shucking the corn, it’s time for me to get started on that cake of yours.”

Before long, the smell of ginger, apples, and cinnamon wafts from the cake cooling on the counter. (“See?” Bitty said. “That cake stand wasn’t a dumb purchase at all. It’s perfect.”) They’ve showered and changed and made an emergency run for citronella candles, and now there’s nothing to do but sit and wait for everyone to arrive.

Well, Bitty’s sitting, anyway, scrolling through his phone without any sign of stress. Jack’s restless and trying not to pace, and even the “Dad Music Party Playlist” that Bitty made for him, playing in the background, doesn’t help. He wants to sit down and wrap himself around Bitty, but the paranoid part of his brain insists that people will know he’s been cuddling his secret boyfriend when they ring the doorbell. He sets out chips and guacamole instead, then pours himself a glass of water and forces himself to drink it slowly.

Lardo and Shitty arrive first, as he hoped they would, and Lardo has her junior art show painting in tow. It’s even better than Jack remembered, so when Lardo offers to help him hang it right away, he jumps at the chance. It looks great hanging over his sofa, and Jack pulls Lardo to him in an awkward half-hug. She leans against him for a minute, wrapping her arm around his waist.

“It looks good, dude,” she says quietly. “You look good. You doing okay?”

“Getting there,” Jack says, and she nods, giving him a quick squeeze before she moves away.

Jack still startles when the doorbell rings a few minutes later and Rosey comes in with Poots and a bottle of wine. Snowy follows a few minutes later, and then Tater, who’s large and loud and friendly enough to count for three people. He takes to Bitty immediately.

“You come to practice sometime,” he says, in what he clearly thinks is an inside voice. “We have race, you embarrass all these slowpokes. Fun, yes? Show Poots here how’s it done.”

Poots snorts. “Like you’re not the slowest out of all of us, dude.”

Tater puts his hands on his hips and looms. “Little Poots,” he says, with exaggerated patience. “We go over this. Do I need to be fastest when I can do this?” Poots tries to duck away, but he should know by now that Tater _is_ fast enough to grab him and sling him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, which he does. Poots looks resigned, and Tater claps him affectionately on the butt before carrying him off to the kitchen. “See? I’m bring you to drinks. Teammates!”

“So, that’s Tater,” Jack says, shifting from one foot to the other. “Er, Alexei.”

“He seems very nice,” Bitty says. “And there’s only one of him, which automatically makes him less intimidating than Ransom and Holster.”

Well, that’s one way to look at it.

Jack heads to the kitchen to make sure everyone’s finding drinks and snacks, and then gets drawn into a conversation about apartment hunting with Snowy and Poots. When he finally turns his attention back to Bitty, he’s deep in a food conversation with Tater.

“You have had pirozhki?” Tater asks. “Not like pierogi—much better. No good ones here, though. In New York, maybe, or Boston.”

“How are you at translating recipes?” Bitty asks. “Cause I’m always game to try somethin’ new, but Google translate is _so_ not good at technical language, y’know?”

Tater brightens. “I translate, you bake, I taste-test?” he says. “I think we can make very good deal, little Bittle. Hah! I’m make rhyme.” He pauses, then looks chastened. “Sorry, maybe not funny for you.”

Bitty laughs and shrugs. “It’s what I get for hanging out with hockey giants.” He only winces a little when Tater claps him on the shoulder, and yeah, Bitty’s right—Ransom and Holster really were good prep. Freshman Bittle’s knees would have buckled.

Tater turns back to Jack. “Now, Zimmboni! I see pool table. You hear Rosey bragging in locker room, yes?”

Jack grins and nods. “Oh, yeah. Lots of smack talk from that one. Loud, loud smack talk.”

“Now we see how loud he’s talking with stick in his hand. Rosey! Come here, okay, time for ass-whooping.”

In the end, it’s Tater who gets the ass-whooping, which he endures with cheerful good grace and repeated promises for a rematch. When Jack heads out to the patio to start the burgers and veggie kebabs, Lardo’s challenging Rosey to a match with a gleam in her eye that would frighten Rosey if he knew her any better.

It’s a nice evening, so he leaves the screen door open, the better to listen to the Rosey/Lardo match up. Except for the odd victory belch, Lardo doesn’t bother with smack talk, but she has her own personal hype man in Shitty, and Jack’s teammates are only too happy to turn on Rosey in favor of someone tinier, cuter, and probably deadlier.

Bitty drifts in and out, refilling Jack’s lemonade, reporting on the game, and sometimes just leaning against the patio railing next to Jack, listening to the sounds of the neighborhood in the evening. It’s hard not to reach out and touch him—and would it really be so terrible if he did?—but it’s also easier than he anticipated, blending his old life with his new. Bitty, Jack is learning, can fit seamlessly anywhere, and Shitty and Lardo are comfortable in their own skins in a way that’s always helped Jack feel more settled in his.

Bitty looks over at him and smiles. “How’re you doing?”

“Good,” Jack says. “Better than I expected.” He flips a couple of the burgers and turns back to Bitty. “Thanks to you.”

Bitty shakes his head, but it’s gentle. “You’re the common denominator here, honey. Everyone’s here ‘cause of you. I just gave things a little nudge.”

It’s not worth arguing no matter how much Jack wants to. The simple fact is that Bitty’s more essential than he realizes, and Jack is much, much less. But Bitty’s bright face goes shadowed and sad when Jack says things like that, which is the last thing that Jack wants tonight. (The last thing Jack ever wants.) “I’m still grateful,” he says instead.

A outburst of cheers, accompanied by an epic belch and a low, defeated moan, erupts from the living room. Apparently Lardo’s making a hobby out of crushing professional hockey players at parties. It’s fantastic. Jack flips the last of the burgers onto a platter with the kebabs and carries the lot back inside.

“So Jack said you’re Samwell’s team manager?” Snowy asks Lardo, clinking his beer bottle against hers in a toast.

“Yep,” she says, rocking back on her heels with one hand in her pocket.

“But you don’t skate?” he continues. “Like, not at all?”

“Nope.” She grins, obviously enjoying his confusion.

“She paints,” Jack supplies, nodding at the new painting on his wall. “That’s one of hers.”

Snowy whistles. “Bitchin.’” They clink bottles again, and then Snowy wanders off towards the kitchen. Jack catches Lardo’s eyes over Bitty’s head and she gives him a nonchalant little shrug, as if he can’t tell how proud she is right now.

Bitty already has the rest of the food laid out on the kitchen island with the plates and utensils. He gives the plate of burgers and veggie kebabs an approving look as Jack adds it to the spread.

Jack looks around. “Uh… dig in, I guess?” he says, suddenly feeling like all eyes are on him.

Shitty gives him a shove. “Birthday boy goes first!”

“Oooh, I’m forgetting Zimmboni’s birthday,” Tater says, lighting up like it’s his birthday instead.

“You can keep forgetting,” Jack mumbles.

“Pshhh. And miss chance to serenade rookie? Never.” He claps Jack on the shoulder and reaches for a plate. “Lots of singing, okay. You wait.”

The food disappears with alarming speed, but Bitty’s very, very good at what he does, and everyone has more than enough to eat. Jack had hoped they could quietly serve up the cake without making a fuss, but Tater’s got his heart set on singing to Jack now, and Bitty’s produced candles from somewhere (because of course Bitty made sure there were birthday candles). So Jack finds himself standing in the dimmed kitchen staring down an apple spice cake with twenty-five candles blazing merrily, while his teammates and closest friends serenade him with vigor. Snowy turns out to have a fantastic voice; everyone else seems to be settling for enthusiasm over talent. Jack’s chest aches at the circle of smiling faces around him, but for once it isn’t a bad feeling.

Bitty grins ear-to-ear and holds up his phone for a photo while Jack blows out the candles. He manages all but one on the first try, which is just an invitation for chirping and old-man jokes, apparently. But on the other hand, he gets to watch Bitty suck the frosting off the bottoms of the candles and that’s… well, Jack can endure a lot of chirping if he gets to watch that.

No one brought gifts, thank God, so after the cake’s been demolished and the last few beers polished off, the guests start to drift away, one by one. Jack had offered his guest room to Shitty and Lardo, but they’d both refused. “I’m sure you’ve got plans, bro,” Shitty had said with a broad wink. “Don’t wanna be in the way.”

Jack had blushed furiously while Lardo smirked, but in the end he’s secretly grateful for their insistence on driving back to Boston that night. He’s desperate for every minute alone with Bitty that he can get, and he knows that having Lardo and Shitty in the next room would just make them both self-conscious—not to mention subject them to a barrage of morning-after chirping.

Jack hugs them both as they leave; as close as they all live, it’s harder than it should be to coordinate their schedules for visits. “Thanks for coming,” he says, as Lardo squeezes him tightly around the waist. “It was really good to see you.”

“Right back at ya, man,” Shitty says, wrapping long arms around them both. Lardo squeaks when she’s caught in the middle but doesn’t try to squirm away. “Bits, get over here,” Shitty adds, gesturing wildly to Bitty, who’d been standing aside and waiting his turn. “You can’t escape the love huddle.”

Bitty lets himself be folded into the group hug; Jack knows he’s missed Shitty, and worries about a Haus without him. “Don’t be a stranger, Shits,” Bitty says. “You ever need a law school pie, you call me up, okay? Or better yet, come visit. You know where I live.”

Shitty sniffles. “For sure, bro. And you be good to my boy, okay? That goes for both of you.”

“Okay, let me out, can’t breathe,” Lardo says, wriggling free of Jack and Shitty. She settles her jacket with a shake of her shoulders, then offers Jack and Bitty a crisp salute before she opens the door. “Gentlemen.”

Shitty sniffles one more time. “I’m getting deets later,” he tells Jack, and then follows Lardo out the door.

“You’re really not!” Jack calls after him, and Shitty’s laughter drifts down the hall as he shuts the door.

And then it’s just him and Bittle in the apartment. A quick glance around reveals that the mess isn’t too bad, just a few empty bottles to recycle and a couple of dishes, since Bitty already wrapped up the leftovers. Turns out grown-up parties really are better than kegsters, no matter what Shitty says. Shitty never had clean-up duty.

Jack’s gaze wanders back to Bitty, who’s perched on the edge of the pool table, watching Jack with a fond expression.

“What?” Jack says.

Bitty shrugs. “Just… you. You’re awful nice to look at, you know. And hey, we did it! First joint dinner party.” He holds out his fist and Jack bumps it, remembering their first fist bump on the loading dock at Faber, when Bitty had been surprised to learn Jack even did fist bumps.

“Wait, what about that time with Chowder and Farmer? When you made quiche?”

Bitty laughs and shakes his head. “First of all, that was lunch. And second of all, I never technically invited you. You just sorta sat down and started eating quiche.”

Oh. “It was good quiche.” Which isn’t really relevant but Jack’s not sure what else to say. Chowder and Farmer hadn’t minded, right? Not that Chowder ever seems to mind anything, but—

“It was damn good quiche,” Bitty says, and he’s laughing and he still looks fond, so apparently it’s fine. “You know we didn’t mind having you there, honey.”

Jack just steps close enough to slide his hands over Bitty’s hips and lean in for a gentle kiss. “Tonight was good. It was really good, actually.”

“I’m glad,” Bitty says, and tilts his face up, angling for another kiss. “Happy birthday, Mr. Zimmermann.”

Jack sighs against his lips. “Can I take you to bed?” he whispers.

Bitty loops his arms around Jack’s neck, his smile radiant. “Honey, I’m all yours.”

Jack gets distracted for awhile, kissing Bitty against the pool table, slow and soft and so, so warm. After spending half the day entertaining friends and keeping their hands to themselves, the quiet, empty apartment feels luxurious, almost indulgent, and Jack’s inclined to take his time. They’ve got all the time in the world right now, so why not spend some of it making out lazily in the living room?

Finally Bitty pulls back, mouth red and cheeks flushed. “C’mon,” he whispers, and tugs at Jack’s hand, leading him down the hall. Jack follows with his lips still tingling from Bitty’s kisses. Once they reach the bedroom, Bitty guides him to sit on the edge of the bed while he slowly strips, his eyes never leaving Jack’s.

It’s not a performance, not really—Bitty isn’t teasing or trying to put on a show. He moves deliberately, without artifice, neither rushing nor drawing it out, and somehow it’s better than any carefully-choreographed striptease Jack could imagine. Bitty slips his shirt off his shoulders and drapes it over the chair in the corner. His shorts follow a moment later, and then he’s standing in front of Jack in nothing but a trim little pair of boxer briefs.

Jack’s mouth goes dry; he’s surprised he can see for the stars in his eyes. “Come here?” he says, and it comes out rough.

Bitty bites his lip and steps closer, till he’s standing between Jack’s knees with his hands resting on Jack’s spread thighs.

“I feel a little overdressed for this party,” Jack admits, his eyes skating over the smoothly-muscled planes of Bitty’s abs and chest.

Bitty smiles. “Very overdressed.” He leans forward and tugs Jack’s polo shirt over his head, then moves back enough for Jack to slip out of his jeans. Once those are gone, Bitty steps close again, slides a hand around the back of Jack’s neck and tips Jack’s head up for a kiss. Jack’s hands move automatically to rest on Bitty’s hips, where they fit like they belong. It’s easy to get lost like that, with Bitty’s hands light on his skin and Bitty’s mouth warm on his. Bitty seems to be enjoying having the height advantage for once, and it’s an interesting novelty for Jack, too. He’s never had to tilt his head up to kiss anyone.

Jack can’t stop the little sigh that escapes when Bitty eventually pulls back, nor the soft moan that follows when Bitty drops to his knees, gazing up at Jack through his lashes. He’s bashful and bold all at once, and so, so beautiful.

“What do you want?” Bitty asks, running his hands up Jack’s thighs till his fingertips slide under the edge of Jack’s boxers.

“Oh,” Jack says. “I—” What does he want? It’s hard to think, with Bitty so warm and close, and even with the arousal shimmering along his nerve endings, Jack can’t imagine much that could improve upon what they’re doing right now.

Bitty waits as patiently as he always does, his thumbs rubbing idly over Jack’s skin. “Anything you want,” he says softly. “Or nothing at all, if you’d rather.”

Jack swallows. “No, I— I do. I, ah.” He’s blushing again, which is frustrating, but Bitty never seems to mind, never even comments. “Can I ride you?” he asks finally.

“Oh my _God_ , yes,” Bitty says, all in a rush. His eyes are very wide and his face is as crimson as Jack’s feels. “Just, um. Have you— I mean, I’ve never, uh. I’ve never done that before. Any of that,” he adds in a small voice, like it’s something to be ashamed of.

“That’s okay,” Jack says, tugging Bitty up to sit on the bed next to him. “It’s—it’s been awhile for me, too, but if you—I’d really like to. If you’re into it.”

Bitty clears his throat. “Oh, honey, I am so into it. I just have no idea what I’m doing.”

Jack smiles, breathing easier now that his desires are out in the open and Bitty hasn’t shot him down. “We can work with that.” He leans in to kiss Bitty again, and shifts them till they’re stretched out in the center of the bed, mouths working and legs tangled.

Jack’s in less of a hurry than he might have expected, and Bitty seems happy to follow his lead. Jack runs a hand down Bitty’s back and over his side, loving how soft his skin is there, despite the hardness of muscle and bone beneath. It’s intoxicating, the way he feels beneath Jack’s hands, the way he responds with such enthusiasm to every touch.

Finally Jack rolls them over so Bitty’s on his back, looking up at Jack with bright eyes. His lips look swollen from all their kissing, and his hair is wild against the pillowcase. “Still okay?” Jack asks.

“Still okay,” Bitty confirms. “You know I like this view.”

Jack grins and sits up, straddling Bitty’s thighs. “Better get these out of the way,” he says, hooking his fingers beneath the waistband of Bitty’s briefs. “And mine too, I guess.” While he’s up, kicking off his boxers, he grabs lube and a condom, tossing them onto the bed beside Bitty.

“What do you need me to do?” Bitty asks. He’s biting his lip, eager and nervous all at once, and another wave of affection rushes through Jack.

“Mm, sit up a little,” Jack says, arranging the pillows against the headboard. He settles himself back in Bitty’s lap, running his hands down Bitty’s arms and over his chest. “And kiss me some more?”

“Well, I _guess_ ,” Bitty says. He’s lovely like this, gazing up at Jack with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Jack can’t resist the pull of that mouth, not for more than a minute or two, and he doesn’t see the point in trying.

They kiss for a few moments more, but now that they’re naked—now that they’ve discussed an _agenda_ —their earlier lassitude evaporates rapidly. Bitty’s hands slide down to Jack’s ass and stay there, pulling him closer, and soon they’re grinding against each other while Bitty sets his teeth to the tendon at the side of Jack’s neck.

This isn’t— it’s— it’s good, it’s very good, but it’s not quite what Jack wants tonight, so he takes a shuddering breath and sits back just enough to pull Bitty’s attention from the thin skin over Jack’s collarbones. “I don’t, ah—I mean. I better grab the lube.”

“Right,” Bitty says, a little breathless. He hesitates briefly. “Right, yeah. Um, how do you want—?” he begins, right as Jack says “Do you want me to—?”

“I’m not sure what I’m doing,” Bitty says. “I mean, I have a little, by myself, but the angle wasn’t quite— yeah. And never with, y’know. Another person.”

Jack nods and squeezes a generous dollop of lube out onto his palm. “As long as you keep touching me, I’m happy.” He slicks up his first finger and reaches back, just circling gently at first, reacquainting his body slowly. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open—this feels good already; he’d almost forgotten how good—but Bitty’s watching him with a fascinated hunger that has Jack transfixed. He takes a deep breath and slips his finger in, and his soft moan of relief draws an echo from Bitty.

“Good Lord, that’s hot,” Bitty whispers, sounding awed. His hands move restlessly over Jack’s hips and thighs and chest, unable to settle anywhere. He seems as hot under his skin as Jack feels, as desperate to get closer.

Jack adds more lube and a second finger, and it’s more of a stretch than he remembered, but it fades quickly, chased away by the line of kisses Bitty drops down his neck. Jack tips his head back, exhaling slowly as his body adjusts. Under him, in front of him, Bitty’s still petting him all over, words of praise and affection tumbling from his lips in half-formed phrases and interrupted sentences. He strokes down Jack’s arm and between his legs, sliding his hand over Jack’s and making them both moan. Jack’s still fucking himself slowly on two fingers, but now he has Bitty’s fingers down there too, teasing lightly around his hole, making him shiver, making him _want._

Jack slips his own fingers out and reaches for the condom, and Bitty withdraws his hand. “Okay,” Jack says, chest tight with anticipation. “Okay, I think I’m—yeah.”

It’s awkward for a moment, with the lube and the condom and the logistics of positioning, but they fumble through it together, all slippery fingers and flushed cheeks, hitching breaths and hot skin.

And then Jack’s lowering himself slowly onto Bitty’s dick while Bitty bites his lip so hard it goes white.

“Oh my God,” Bitty says when Jack’s fully seated and breathing out slowly through his nose. “Jack, oh my _God_.” His eyes are wider than Jack’s ever seen them, and all pupil.

Jack grins, suddenly giddy with the knowledge that he gets to have this, that he gets to have this _with Bitty_. “Right?” he says, and rocks his hips experimentally, just to see what it will do to Bitty’s expression.

Bitty doesn’t disappoint: his hands fly to Jack’s shoulders, gripping tight, and his mouth goes slack. “Oh my God,” he repeats, and he sounds like he’s struggling to keep his voice steady.

Jack remembers the first time he was in Bitty’s position, and how he felt he might drown in sensation, so he moves slowly at first, even as every cell in his body clamors for more. He loves the burn in his thighs as he lifts himself up and slides back down, loves the pressure and the fullness, the sharp-edged pleasure licking up his spine. Bitty pulls him down for another kiss and with that tiny change in angle, his whole body lights up like a supernova. Jack moans against Bitty’s mouth as they rock together. A host of individual sensations—Bitty’s fingers digging into his thighs, the sweat trickling down the small of his back, the sheets bunching beneath his shins—fade away, and other, stronger pleasures take their place. The heat of Bitty’s mouth, of his bare skin. Bitty’s breathy moans, cinnamon-rich on Jack’s tongue. The sweet slick drag of Jack’s cock against Bitty’s stomach, just this side of not enough.

“I’m sorry, I’m just—I’m so—I’m so close,” Bitty gasps, nearly stuttering in his pleasure. He wraps one hand around Jack, and suddenly Jack’s right there with him.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Yeah, I’m— _fuck_ , Bitty—” He grinds down hard as Bitty’s hand tightens around him and Bitty’s hips kick beneath his in a staccato burst. Jack comes a moment later, hot in the scant space between them, and over the roaring in his ears he’s dimly aware of Bitty gasping his own way to completion. Bitty sags against him, resting his forehead on Jack’s shoulder as they both shudder through the aftershocks.

“I think I’m dead,” Bitty says after a moment.

Jack chuckles. “You’re breathing pretty hard for a dead guy.”

“It’s an illusion. Also, if that was a chirp about my physical fitness, then we need to have a talk about timing.”

Jack brushes a kiss against Bitty’s hair, enjoying the velvety prickle of the shaved sides against his lips. “I would never.”

Bitty leans back against the headboard, and oh, Jack has to catch his breath all over again. It seems to hit Jack over and over how gorgeous Bittle is, from every angle and in every light. Here, illuminated by the glow of the bedside lamp, he seems lit from within, eyes shining and hair golden.

Jack can’t resist. He leans over to grab his phone from the nightstand. “Can I?” he asks, holding it up uncertainly.

Bittle smiles, slow and comfortable. “You can do whatever you want, sweetheart. I don’t think I could complain right now if I wanted to.”

The light’s not really good enough for his phone camera, but Jack snaps the picture anyway. The slight blur works somehow, the poor exposure softening the edges of Bitty’s face and shoulders in a way that seems to capture the mood of the evening perfectly.

They fumble together through the inevitable cleanup. “The faster we shower, the faster we can get back to the afterglow,” Bitty says as they rinse off. “Also, my legs are still sorta shaking? So that’s a new experience."

“A good new experience?” Jack says, busying himself with the washcloth and hoping he doesn’t sound too insecure.

“A fantastic new experience,” Bitty says. He slips up behind Jack and wraps his arms around Jack’s waist while the warm water rushes over them both. “You know it was, Jack. I don’t think it could be bad with you.”

“I know the feeling,” Jack whispers into the spray, and lets Bitty nudge him out of the shower and towel him off and lead him back to bed, where they sleep curled around each other, warm and content.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

“You know, with everything else last night, I totally forgot to give you your birthday present,” Bitty says the next morning. They’re out on the patio, sipping coffee and watching the parade of morning joggers and dog-walkers on the street below.

Jack grins into his mug. “I dunno, I think you gave me something pretty good.”

The ensuing squeal from Bitty—half embarrassment, half amusement—is totally worth the playful smack Bitty lands on his shoulder. “Jack!”

Jack’s grin widens. “Am I wrong?”

“Oh hush, you. Let me go grab your real gift.”

He returns a few minutes later with a small blue-wrapped package. Jack opens it carefully, trying not to tear the paper, while Bitty perches on the edge of his chair and plays with the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “I wasn’t sure what to get you,” Bitty says as Jack smooths the wrappings away from a plain cardboard box. “I mean, you can basically buy anything you want, and of course this is an _occasion_ , you know, first birthday as boyfriends, so I was sort of feelin’ the pressure. Anyway, I hope it’s okay, I mean…”

He trails off as Jack opens the box and pulls out a stack of framed photographs. They’re all square, with matching white mats and simple black frames. It takes him a minute before he realizes they’re all his photos. He recognizes a few from his Instagram, but the others are from his senior portfolio, which he’d shared with Bitty on a thumb drive before graduation. “Bits…” he says, looking up at him. “This is great.”

Bitty’s still twisting his fingers in his sleeves, but a pleased flush spreads across his cheeks. “I figured they’d be something nice for your walls. I know it’s not a huge gift, but—"

“Bitty, it’s perfect,” Jack says. “Thank you.” He slips a hand behind Bitty’s neck and tugs him closer for a kiss. “I mean it,” he adds when they break apart.

“Okay,” Bitty says, looking a little more confident. “Also, I don’t know if you saw it yet, but, um, the last one is a little different from the others.”

Jack shuffles the first four aside, and— _oh_. It’s a selfie he and Bitty took in Georgia on the Fourth of July. They’re both shirtless from a dip in Bitty’s aunt’s pool, and they’re a little sunburned, but they’re relaxed and smiling like—

—smiling like Jack didn’t know he could smile until Bitty. It’s one thing to know how happy he is and how much he loves Bittle, but it’s another thing entirely to see it written so plainly in the curve of his lips and the looseness of his shoulders.

“It’s the first picture I have of us as a couple,” Bitty explains, possibly misinterpreting Jack’s silence. “It seemed worth commemorating, I guess.”

“Yeah. It’s a good one.” Jack sets the photos on the little patio table, careful not to scratch the frames. “Come here?” he says, and if his voice is a little rough, they both ignore it, because Bitty’s in his lap and they’ve got better things to do.

 

_/ _/  \\_ \\_

 

It’s as hard and strange as Jack expects, dropping Bittle off at the Haus a few days later. It’s hard to fall back into “just bros” mode, hard to know he won’t fall asleep with Bitty beside him that night. And it’s strange to realize that the Haus—which has _home_ etched into every warped board and loose shingle—is just a place he’s visiting now, with the room that used to be his now decked out in teal and black.

His new home is fifty miles south of here. All its floors are level, all its windows close properly, and Jack knows exactly what’s transpired on all of its furniture. But Bittle’s been there—he’s baked a pie in Jack’s kitchen, fallen asleep in Jack’s bed, watched ESPN on Jack’s sofa. That helps. It helps immensely.

It doesn’t really make it easier to leave Bitty behind while Samwell recedes in the rear view mirror. But they’ll Skype tonight and see each other the week after next, and in the meantime Jack’s going home to an apartment with traces of Bittle all over it: a fridge stocked with leftovers, each container carefully labeled; a cutting board shaped like the state of Georgia; a framed selfie on his nightstand. He’s going home to an apartment someone lives in, an apartment where someone loves and has been loved.

It helps. It helps immensely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -OH WOW, you guys, I loved writing this story so much and I hope you also enjoyed reading it. And heck, even if you didn't enjoy reading it, I'm grateful as all get-out that you made it this far. Thank you.  
> -So I guess this story takes place in the same 'verse as my previous fic "Worth a Thousand Words." Neither is necessary to the other; but I lifted the description of Jack and Bitty's first selfie from "Worth a Thousand Words" and put it in a frame for Jack here. Creative writing!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the first Check Please Big Bang, with fantastic art by [AuntieSuze](http://auntiesuze.tumblr.com/).
> 
> One thousand thanks to [PorcupineGirl](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PorcupineGirl/pseuds/PorcupineGirl) for the beta, to the Antidiogenes Club for listening to me whine, and to the CP Big Bang mods for organizing this whole rodeo. It’s been a blast!
> 
> The title is from Greg Laswell, "Comes and Goes (In Waves)":  
>  _This one's for believing, if only for its sake,_  
>  _Come on, friends, get up now, love is to be made._
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr, yelling about writing and crying about Jack Zimmermann (or crying about writing and yelling about Jack Zimmermann, depending on the day), at [one thousand hurrahs](http://www.onethousandhurrahs.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  _Check, Please!_ is Ngozi's pond; I just play here sometimes.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for "Love Is to Be Made"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8446792) by [auntiesuze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auntiesuze/pseuds/auntiesuze)




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